The Untold Chapter
by ramblingonandon
Summary: AUsih. [There will be deviations here from the show] The story about how it all began but with a twist. The first step in coming together of a legendary brotherhood. A look into what bounds it all together.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable in this story, they belong to their owners. The characters belong to Dumas and bbc. The Lyrics in this story are from 'Mars' that belongs to Sleeping at Last. I'm just borrowing them for inspiration.**

 **Author's note: This is my first ever fanfic and English is not my first language. I have tried my best but there will be errors, for which I apologies before hand. Please Review and help me improve.**

* * *

 _ **We laid our names to rest**_  
 _ **Along the dotted line.**_

* * *

He travelled alone. The pale winter sunlight spilled in streams through the gaps in the canopy and the underbrush gleamed with the early morning dew like the polished bones of a long dead creature. His horse trudged along the soggy path until it trickled out into the open expanse. Rolling grounds of pale green and dark brown greeted him.

He had been this way before, almost seventeen years ago. An image of dark curls and an honest laugh wisped before his mind's eye and Treville pulled his horse to a stop. He was a man of honour, a man of his word. His word that had only been divided once in his life; between his country and his wife. She had turned away from him then, on that fateful night when his orders had come, and he had not begged for forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. He had ridden out into the rebellion with a broken heart and taken out his rage on the Queen Marie's loyalists. He was captured, then wounded in his escape, one thing led to another and by the time Treville made it back home, his wife was gone.

But he was not crossing through here for the matters of the heart. Instead he was here on duty set by the King himself. When his Royal Highness had ordered the formation of a new regiment and appointed Treville to the task, the soldier had taken his job seriously. He had hashed out the details and smoothed out the tangles. No one had expected the brusque soldier to posses such art of conversations but Treville was nothing if not persistent.

Now he was looking for soldiers, men of honour and of sword. This had brought him down to these paths again. The two lads of his old friend the Comte de la Fère would suit this new regiment perfectly. In their latest correspondence the Comte had told him about the budding passion of his oldest.

Olivier d'Athos, he remembered the lad's name from those faded letters filled with anecdotes. The lad had excelled in fencing from a young age and had upheld the values his father had instilled in him with a sobriety far from his age. But it was not this that had brought his name to the forefront of Treville's mind when he had began looking for young recruits, it was actually the fond way his friend had written about his oldest son watching out for his little brother.

That was almost ten years ago. Olivier would be a young man of twenty-one now, a prime age to join in the service to the crown and country.

Treville smiled as the village came into view and the modest château peeked from behind the trees on the far edge. He dug his heels in the horse's side and the beast quickened its pace with a snort. He was half way there when he heard it, a steady thrum beating on the ground behind him. There were five of them, clad in black, their faces half covered as they galloped towards him.

Treville's sharp blue eyes narrowed just as the barrel of a musket flashed in the watery light and a resounding crack pierced the air. He ducked instinctively even as he pulled his horse around and into a gallop. He hated bringing trouble to the quaint village and he hated to retreat, but to stand out in the open in front of musket wielding bandits was an entirely foolish way to meet his demise.

People scattered out of his way as he charged into the market on the outskirts of the village.

"Clear the area!" he yelled at the horrified faces, "Bandits are on their way, clear the market now!"

As the humdrum broke into shrieks and crashes, Treville turned and shot the bandit at the front of the group and instantly began re-loading the musket. But then the men were upon him.

He blocked the sword arching towards him with his own blade and countered the attack with a thrust while he kicked out at the man on his left and upended him from his saddle. He parried with another bandit on his right and thrust back the first one. It was the bandit that he had pushed out of the saddle that grabbed his ankle from the stirrup and yanked him down, hard.

The muddy ground was unforgiving and his breath left him in a terrible woosh. A booted kick connected with his side and pushed him onto his back. Four sharp points rested on his throat as he desperately clawed the ground to reach his discarded sword.

"Let the musketeer be," said a voice.

"Who?" one of the bandits frowned in the direction the voice had come from.

"The man with the musket," the voice sounded clearly exasperated, "the musketeer."

"Get outta here whelp, its nothin to do with you."

"No need for name-calling gentlemen," Treville heard and strained his eyes back in their sockets to look at his saviour who was standing a few feet away from his head on the ground.

It was a lanky dark haired figure, a lad probably in his teens who snagged a small rock with the toe of his boot and began flipping it between his heels. Intent and grinning at his task he did not look up at the bandits he was talking to.

"It's a bad habit you see, calling names and hitting people when they're down," he said as he tossed the rock from his heel to his hand and regarded the bandits with a reckless grin, "so let the musketeer go."

The leader of the bandits charged at the boy with a growl, only to stop with a howl of agony. He grasped his face and fell to his knees while the boy kicked up the bandit's discarded sword and plucked it from the air. He twirled it with a flourish and met the three bandits with a devil-may-care laugh and hard gleam in his dark eyes.

Treville jumped into the fray immediately. The lad was good but it was clear that the bandits were skilled. On a good day Treville knew he could beat three well trained swordsmen but his fall and the journey had left him stiff. Still he parried with the three bandits as the lad ducked and dodged and clashed blades with last one who wielded a cunning dagger after losing his sword.

From the corner of his eye Treville kept track of him, but try as he might he could not keep the bandits engaged for long and soon another joined the battle with the slim boy. But the lad was quick on his feet and evaded the blades like a cat at play.

So focused was Treville on the boy's safety that he didn't see the blade that swung towards him; he shifted at the last second. It left an arched trail of blood from his back to the front of his stomach. He fell to one knee with a muffled grunt and looked up at his executioner just in time to see something green connect with the man's temple, dropping him in a heap.

He looked to his side and saw the boy standing atop a barrel of apples, balanced with a feet on either side of the rim. The lad swung his blade in a curve to push back his opponents then flipped backwards and landed on his feet behind the barrel. Between one blink and another one more bandit dropped with an apple to the head while their companions rushed off on their horses, one supporting a nose bleed and the other a stab wound to the shoulder.

The boy flourished the sword once with a rotation of his wrist then struck the blade into the ground.

"Come out from behind the cart Thomas, it's not a suitable place for a Comte's son." He called over his shoulder as he neared Treville. He crouched down and gently maneuvered the man to lie onto his uninjured side.

"May I?" he asked

Treville gave a sharp nod; he would blame it later on the blood loss and not onto his curiosity that was piqued by the exuberant calm of this young man.

"Oh…oh that is not good," Thomas looked down at the injured man and averted his gaze, "René this is not good. My brother will know and he will not be pleased. And your uncle! He'll beat you death! You just had a duel in the market. What are we going to do?"

"You are going to hand over that ridicules sash of yours," René extended a hand and Thomas instantly complied, "Then we're going to take this musketeer to your home."

"Olivier wouldn't want strangers in the house. You know _she_ doesn't like it." Thomas looked anywhere but at the two on the ground as René pressed the sash onto the wound and Treville felt incapable of swallowing down on a gasp.

"He's a soldier Thomas, I'm sure even your stuck up brother wouldn't find anything wrong in helping him."

"And how do you know he's a soldier, he could be a bandit."

"A bandit with the court's symbol?" René tapped the fleur-de-lis on the shoulder of the long brown coat that Treville wore.

"I'm Treville, his majesty's soldier, here to meet the Comte de la Fère," Treville said through gritted teeth as René pulled him into a sitting position.

Thomas bent to stare him in the face, pale blue eyes studied him for long seconds and whatever the young lord saw in Treville it smoothed the nervousness from his soft features and drew a nod of assent.

"Now don't just stand there Thomas, help me get the man up." René motioned for his friend and Treville soon found himself balanced on wobbly knees.

"I'll get his mount," Thomas nodded and with that the three of them began moving towards the château.

People had come out to check what the problem was now that the commotion had died down. They stared at the odd procession; one or two even nodding at the young lord, though no one came forward to assist them. Treville didn't mind, he was too focused on putting one step in front of the other in a way that didn't put pressure on his injured side. As it was, Thomas's sash was soaked through by the time the Comte's residence loomed into view. It was only René's arm around his middle that was staunching the blood flow and the boy's solid presence by Treville's side that was keeping him up.

"Take it to the stables and put him in the guest room in the east wing," Thomas's command broke through Treville's reverie. He felt rather then saw the servants who took him from his warm support and an inexplicable sense of loss washed over him.

"Don't jostle the man, he's already in pain." He heard René's exasperated tone and felt the sash tighten around his wound. Treville distantly heard Thomas order the surgeon to be summoned as the world shifted from bright to pale and to blissful, soft white.

* * *

He came to with a gasp and his face pressed into a soft pillow. There was fire in his side, its flames spreading out onto his back and his stomach. He groaned when something stoked that fire.

"It's not that deep," a cheerful voice spoke in a tone strangely soft.

"The surgeon's two villages over," came the distraught answer.

"I can patch him up."

"Oh please will you?"

"Worried about your sheets getting stained?" the teasing tone bellied the words as Treville felt the fire in his side stoked again, "Why don't you send up some wine, warm water, linen and a sewing kit? Then see to the message to your brother?"

"Are you sure you don't need my assistance?" the hope in there was barely veiled.

"I'll meet you when I'm done." a chuckle followed as the tunic from Treville's side was torn further, "Besides; vomiting near an open wound is hardly sanitary."

"I did not throw up," came the distant retort.

"You just swooned,"

"I did not,"

"And turned green,"

"I'll see you after I contact Olivier." The sound of door closing pushed Treville's drifting consciousness back to the sharp reality.

"Olivier?" he asked.

"The Comte is not here," Rene told him with a pat on his shoulder and went to the assist servant who had brought up the contents he had asked for. Lying on his uninjured side, Treville looked over his shoulder as the lad sorted the items. He held up a bottle of wine and grinned.

"Wait till he finds out that Thomas sent you his best wine. That man is too possessive of his drink," he said.

It was true, even with the burning pain Trevillle could tell the fine quality of the wine when Rene helped him take a few mouthful and then softly washed the wound with warm linen. He had only just gathered his bearings when the boy soaked another piece of linen with the wine and laid the sopping cloth over the arched gash.

Treville hissed at the sting.

"Don't be a baby," Rene said, "It looks worse than it is." He frowned at the wound that seeped blood even after being cleaned.

"It will need to be stitched." He nodded to himself although there was a hint of apology in his voice.

"Then we'll wait for the surgeon?" Treville could not hide the dread that had trickled into his voice but he was hard-pressed by the almost gleeful look that the boy had as he prepared the needle with wine and the candle flame. The lad snorted and threaded the needle before he looked at Treville.

"My mother is a seamstress; I know what I'm doing." He said, "But if you want we can wait for the surgeon and let the wound be for a day. You will lose blood but," he shrugged, "at the speed it's flowing, it wouldn't be fatal I suppose."

Treville looked at the boy, because really that was what he was, a boy. One who had jumped in to save his life without being asked. He glanced from the mischief curling at the corner of his mouth to the steady hands wielding the needle between blood-stained fingertips.

"How old are you?" he asked and received a quirked eyebrow for his effort.

"I'm about to let you plunge a needle into my skin, I think I'm entitled to know something about you." He added and couldn't help but smile back at the grin that lit Rene's face.

"I'm sixteen," he said as he carefully pulled together the ends of the torn skin and began stitching it back together. He made no comment as Treville grit his teeth and got his breathing under control.

"You have experience in this?"

"Some,"

"You don't look like someone who stays indoors learning to stitch," he observed because despite being on the slim side the lad had strength in his built that came from an active life, "And you don't fight like one who spends most of his time with the needle."

"I help my uncle with his work. He's a swords-smith."

"And you practice with them too?"

"I'll neither deny nor confirm," Rene's warm brown eyes locked with his as the boy gave a cheeky grin; "let the witnesses be the judge of that."

Treville rolled his eyes and inquired about the Comte and Rene told him he was out on a hunting trip. But it was not Olivier that Treville was asking about.

"I meant his father, the old Comte,"

"He died," Rene glanced at his face, "Over a year ago."

Treville closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath. He hadn't had many friends and those that he had were lost on either battlefields or in the folds of time with each parting of the ways. The old Comte was a rare link to his boyhood that he had tried to keep in touch with and it hit him deep to know that his friend had departed from this world without him being aware of it.

"I'm sorry for your loss Monsieur Treville," the level of compassion surprised him into focusing on the lad again.

"How did he….?"

"His horse, it spooked and kicked him in the head."

That was not what he had expected. Not an end he ever thought his friend would meet.

"A wasp nest fell on the horse, it was tied under a tree while they made camp," Rene cast a searching glance over his face, "Thomas was there; he told me all about it."

It sounded like a sick joke; an accident that was mostly jested about and even that in derision. Treville felt his meager breakfast rise to his throat and knew it had nothing to do with blood loss and pain. He noticed the dark eyes studying him but at his glance the boy resumed his focus on his work.

"Is there more?" Treville asked.

Rene shrugged lightly and kept to his work. It was only when Treville felt the last firm tug on his skin that the boy sat back in the chair he had pulled closer to the bed earlier. He wiped his blood stained hands with a wet cloth and examined the stitches with a critical eye. When those dark eyes turned to him Treville was surprised by the flint like gleam. Steady and piercing, the gaze focused on him for a few minutes before Rene spoke.

"In my experience, thriving wasp nests don't just fall off from the places they're stuck on." He said.

Treville wasn't going to tell the lad that he was thinking along the same lines although at a slower pace, apparently he was more exhausted then he had led himself to believe.

He was saved by dwelling on the subject by the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. So instead he looked down at the stitches Rene had put in skin. All tightly set in a neat line.

"You're good at this." He said in surprise.

Rene leaned back in his chair with a hand over his heart in mock affront, "Your shock wounds me," he said.

The doors to the room swung open with a muffled bellow and Thomas hurried in, his round face pink with excursion and breaths coming in gulping puffs.

"He's coming here. Your uncle! He's come looking for you." He said.

"About time don't you think?" Rene got to his feet with a short laugh and moved to the wash basin in the corner of the room. He rolled his eyes as Thomas opened the door and peaked outside.

"I must take my leave Monsieur Treville," Rene inclined his head a little before he walked to the window.

"He knows where you live, what's the point of this escape?" Thomas hurried to him.

"My dear friend, if he has pursued me here then it is my duty to allow him a chase." Rene grinned and clambered out onto the window.

"But we're on the second floor…" Thomas called out too late and dashed forward to check on his friend.

He turned with an exasperated fondness in his big eyes.

"Reckless idiot." He said.

Reckless idiot indeed, Treville thought as the day's events washed him out to sleep.

* * *

He dreamed of her, for the first time in nearly a decade she walked in his slumbering mind amongst the din of musket fires and clanging swords, she came to him and handed him an acorn.

He jerked awake to the wild thrum of his heart. For a second he lay staring at the far wall that was too ornately painted for his liking and felt himself sink further into the mattress that was much too comfortable to be a soldier's bedding.

The room was bathed in the warm glow of the candle light even though the window displayed the evening sky that was still bright. There was a snip in the air and Treville was suddenly glad for the lit candles. He stilled when a sweet feminine scent invaded his mind and he hastily rolled over to his injured side, receiving a shooting pain in his back for his efforts.

A mass of dark curls greeted him.

"Felipa?" the name tumbled from his lips.

"No, this is Milady Comtesse, my wife," a figure detached from the shadows of the door and loomed closer to Treville. It took the wounded soldier more than a few minutes to assemble his thoughts, that name hadn't crossed his lips in over a decade. The warmth of that vision was sharply dispersed when a cold hand touched his.

"Monsieur Treville, are you well?"

"Comtesse," he jerked straight and bit back a hiss as his wound made itself known again.

Soft blue eyes looked into his soul even as a charming smile graced the woman's face. He felt it, an invading presence under his skin, crawling and searching. It wouldn't have been noticeable to him if he hadn't met Felipa, fell in love with her, married her.

Treville drew a sharp breath and met the Comtesse's gaze, because if he didn't that would mean that he thought she was - no - he shook his head.

"You look like you are in pain,"

"I'm well Milady," he lied and looked away even though he felt her eyes on him despite her hand reaching for her husband. The inspecting presence receded from his mind as the Comte came forward.

Gone was the child he had remembered, the clear blue eyes were as bright but more solemn and in love. Even a soldier who had deserted his wife could tell. This man was smitten, it was in the smile he bestowed on the Comtesse, in the manner he grasped her hand and the way his gaze lingered on the woman even as he took a seat on the chair she had vacated.

Treville glanced at the Comtesse and immediately looked away; it was wise never to look an unknown Psychic in the eye, he remembered Felipa's warning. It drew him short. He could not be thinking of the Comtesse as a Psychic. No, she was simply a fine lady with a strong presence.

"I don't suppose you remember me," he said instead to Olivier.

"No," Olivier said, "But my father spoke highly of you."

Treville would later blame it on his wound and the exhaustion he had suffered but the young man's words brought a sting to his eyes and he had to look away again. How much had he missed in these past years, how much had he lost. Not lost, Treville mentally berated himself, he had not lost but sacrificed; his love and friends for honour. But it was his choice and he would stand by it.

"And he told me much about you in his letters," he said finally, "he was proud of you."

Olivier blinked and pain flashed across his face. It almost looked like a grimace drawn out by a wound in the flesh. The Comtesse laid a hand on her husband's shoulder while her other hand smoothed his dark hair. The young man seemed to settle and Treville dropped his gaze to not look into this suddenly private moment.

"Why do you come here seeking my husband Monsieur Treville?" the Comtesse asked.

"I am looking for soldiers; men of honour whom I can trust," he said, "The King had appointed me in charge of forming a new regiment; one with the sole purpose of protecting His Highness."

"Is that not what the Red Guard is for?" Olivier asked.

"No they're under the Cardinal's command; it would make sense to have a regiment solely under the King's control." It was the Lady who answered.

Her surprised gaze met Treville's shocked eyes. Affairs of the State were confined to the Palace, yet Treville knew that its walls could not contain the secrets and Royal gossip was an entertainment for a noblemen's lounge. Yet it was unusual to come across a woman interested in the politics of it. Unusual but not unpleasant Treville decided.

"Milady," Olivier drew the hand from his hair to his lips, "Beautiful and clever, how am I blessed with you?"

"Luck of a fool?" the lady offered.

"A fool in love," the husband countered.

A loud cough broke through the mood and another form came forward from the shadows. Stockier, shorter and younger; Thomas pointedly ignored the couple and looked to the soldier. For the first time since he had met him, Treville sensed a firmness about the young man.

"I would like to join this regiment," he said.

"You can hardly spar," it was Olivier who replied and the younger one visibly bristled.

"And how would you know," Thomas snapped back, "We haven't sparred in months."

"I don't have to," Olivier finally pulled his gaze away from his wife; "It's clear in your clumsy movements. A swordsman is poise, he's balance and control."

"Spare me the lecture,"

Older cold blue eyes met the younger fierce blue gaze. The Comtesse pressed tighter on her husband's shoulder and Olivier stilled further. Treville glanced from the couple to Thomas. He had not imagined the brothers to be on such terms, especially Olivier. Truly, gone was the child he had remembered.

"How old are you Thomas?" he asked in a neutral tone.

"Seventeen,"

"That is too young," he settled the matter, "I am sorry but the rules state the minimum age be twenty. However I would gladly take you up in three years."

"Maybe by then you'll know that the sharp end of the sword is what you point towards the enemy."

"Swordsmanship is but a skill, it can be learned. However that is not all that makes a soldier." Treville couldn't keep the sharpness from his tone. He didn't mind the surprised glare from Olivier but he was acutely aware of the Comtesse's gaze that focused back on him.

"Maybe we should let the good soldier rest. And send up something for him to eat?" the Comtesse suggested and Olivier nodded immediately.

Treville watched from the corner of his eye as the couple left the room and felt oddly disconcerted at the manner in which Olivier's eyes kept going back to the beautiful face of his wife. The awestruck smile behind the young man's short, well kept beard left him unsettled; still he could not with good conscience convince the Comte to follow him into this new regiment. He would not wish the pain of disappointing the love of one's life unto anyone.

It was the lull in action he convinced himself as he shook away the sudden thought of himself and Felipa; young, in love and foolish to believe that it would work. He was a French soldier and she was Spanish, but that wasn't all. She was a Psychic and a powerful one. A near princess of her clan that channeled the force, plucking notes into rhythms Felipa had explained to him. Magic, his mind had simply nodded.

It was the loud slow exhale of Thomas that drew back his mind. Treville looked to the lad sprawled on the chair and strangely, found himself wondering what Rene would be about at the moment.

"You don't want to be a soldier," Treville said and before Thomas could protest he went on with a shake of his head, "You stay back from a fight when you have a chance and you cannot stand the sight of blood. You know you don't want to be a soldier."

"I'd be anything if it means I can leave here." Thomas shrugged, "Anything to get away from _her._ "

"Strained relationship with your brother's wife." Treville nodded.

Thomas snorted and wiped a hand over his face. He stared at the soldier for a moment before glancing back at the door. Treville knew a conflicting decision when he saw one; he had also learned to wait them out. His patience was rewarded when Thomas sat forward.

"You truly knew my father?"

Treville nodded. It was an odd inquiry but he added nothing to the conversation. Thomas wiped his hands on his breeches and glanced back at the door.

"Not in the beginning, no, but after a while, he didn't like her and I think she knew and I know there's no proof, it was the horse it's obvious but I think she did it." Thomas hurried over his tripped confession.

It was…possible; but there was no apparent motive and like Thomas ha said there was no proof. It could simply be an accident. People did not go around executing elaborate murders of people who simply didn't like them. Treville considered but his thoughts again wandered to what he had felt in the presence of the Comtesse. She could be a Psychic, did Olivier know? Did his father know? Could it be the reason the Comtesse had somehow influenced his death? Or was it just a hurting son's imagination?

"Forget it, it was nothing," Thomas took his silence as his disapproval, "Just please don't tell my brother."

"Of course not," Treville hurried to put the youth at ease. He didn't like the drop in Thomas's shoulders nor the way his arms were curled around himself. Now that he looked closer he could see the shadows under the lad's eyes, a clear sign that he hadn't been sleeping well.

Yet he could not outright agree with the lad. Treville decided to look in the matter but for the moment he sought a way to put the lad at ease.

"Your friend seemed apt with a needle." He prompted and found himself smiling at the thought of Rene. He looked to Thomas and found him grinning too.

"That's what the surgeon said," he replied and nodded to a small tin-can set at the bedside table, "he left you a salve for your bruises."

"The surgeon came? He was two villages over."

"A day and a half's ride." Thomas shrugged, "I sent good horses."

"How long have I been here?" Treville looked out at the now darkened sky and then back at the lad. He tried hard to not get alarmed at the thought of the time he had lost and as though summoned by the realization he suddenly felt hungry.

"You arrived yesterday morning," Thomas raised his hands in a calming gesture, "You were exhausted so the surgeon advised to let you rest. He was pleased with Rene's work and said that there was no danger to your life."

Treville looked down at himself and cringed. He hadn't been that exhausted, but it seemed that his body thought otherwise. In any case he was not gaining the time he had lost and it seemed that his efforts to come here had been futile. Olivier would not be joining the regiment and whatever may be boasted of his skill, Treville was not in any way an army unto himself.

"Your friend didn't stitch up something in me that wasn't supposed to be stitched up?"

"Rene would never do that," Thomas shook his head, "He is the best when it comes to sewing up wounded pigs and he nursed my horse back to health too."

Treville didn't want to tell that lad how it did not instill him with confidence.

"The surgeon approved?"

"I told you he was pleased, wanted to go and meet Rene." Thomas's light tone sounded weary all of a sudden, "It took a lot to convince him otherwise."

Treville noticed the light shudder that went through the lad and pinned him with a questioning look.

Thomas shrugged and rubbed his eyes.

"It's his uncle; he wouldn't have liked it and then would've taken it out on Rene," he sighed, "Monsieur d'Herblay has a bad temper."

The name hit Treville like a punch to his chest. He pulled in a sharp breath and stared at the lad who seemed a bit alarmed at his reaction. But the boy had said d'Herblay, he had said there was a man here named d'Herblay. A man from Felipa's clan. Someone who may know her. Who may know where she went, how she is.

"d'Herblay?" he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Yes, the sword-smith," Thomas spoke carefully, "he lives around here with his sister."

His sister. Treville felt his heart thundering, his mouth suddenly felt very dry and he was embarrassed to note that he was close to passing out. With deliberate slowness he measured his breathing and sat for a while to catch onto his scattering control.

"This sister is the seamstress, Rene's mother?"

"Yes."

"Her name?"

"Mademoiselle d'Herblay," he provided with a frown.

Treville couldn't understand if the lad was being honest or deliberately dense. He needed to meet this sister, Rene's family could be connected to Felipa's and they would know….anything that was supposed to be known. Treville looked at Thomas.

"When is Rene coming to visit?" he asked.

"How good is your aim Monsieur Treville?" Thomas grinned.

* * *

Charon groaned when Flea checked the bandage over his shoulder wound. Her eye roll brought a smirk on Isaac's face, but it slipped just as quickly as it came when the muscles under his mustache protested against the movement. That whelp had damn near broken his nose; good aim though Isaac nodded to himself.

"You're lucky it's a shoulder," Flea tucked a strand of her golden hair under one of the braids looped on either side of her head, "Imagine if he caught you in the gut."

"It still hurts like a—argh! " he glared at the girl who had poked him in the wound and had the audacity to blink back at him, looking a picture of innocence.

Isaac snorted then hissed and grabbed his sore nose.

"Damn that whelp." He added vehemently, "who was he anyway?"

"He wasn't with that man was he?" Charon asked.

Isaac shook his head. Their mission had been simple; intimidate the traveler away from the Comte de la Fère. And what had they done? Rode him right through the gates!

Isaac took a bitter mouthful from the bottle hanging between his fingers. That was no traveler; that was a soldier.

"A bloody trained soldier." He growled and tried not to think about his fallen comrade. Living in the streets of Paris meant that a death was a relief in the food supply. Death of a person you knew was simply lessening of competition.

"Did you know about it?" he asked Charon, "Did you know it was a soldier?"

The bald dark man grimaced and looked away. It wasn't the pain from his shoulder, Isaac could tell, it was guilt twisting his friend's gut. He nodded, his friend deserved that much.

"When are you gonna learn Charon?" he took another gulp from the near empty bottle and frowned then cringed, then simply grasped his nose sloppily, "When'll you see we're nothin to those prissy men of the Palace?"

"The Cardinal promised us a good reward." Charon sighed and groaned when Flea threw his travel roll at him with more force than necessary. Isaac tried to ignore how pretty she looked in the firelight as she turned and sashayed away from them.

"Cause he wasn't expecting us to survive," Isaac turned his gaze back to his friend, "We're fodder to these people's plans. Ya hear me?"

Isaac watched Flea as she set up her own bed and tried not to linger on why he was suddenly very thankful that she hadn't accompanied them yesterday morning. She set her bedding away from the two lumps snoring nearer to Isaac and Charon. Those two were the reason they weren't in Paris right now. Damn good arm that whelp had Isaac mused and shook his head then brought the bottle to his lips again.

He cursed vehemently to find it empty.

"Maybe I can offer you a better deal," a hooded woman spoke from the edge of their firelight.

Isaac was on his feet, his blade drawn before the sentence had ended. He had not seen nor heard the woman approaching them. From the corner of his eye he could tell that neither had Charon.

"Who are you?" he demanded as Charon drew a blade as well.

The woman came closer, floated Isaac made a note then forced his eyes to open wider in order to sharpen his gaze on the figure that drew close. There was no crunch from her step and no rustle of her long dress. Isaac decided he had had too much to drink.

"Who I am is not your concern," the lady spoke again, "The younger son of the late Comte de la Fère, I want him dead."

"We don't work that way," Isaac spoke before Charon could.

The lady pointed to the hole in the bark of the tree they had been camped under, "Half your payment is in there if you wish to accept my offer;" she said.

Isaac wasn't going to fall for some random lady ghost who appeared in the middle of the forest demanding murder and leaving them payments in obscure tree holes. He was not that stupid; he shook his head and caught Charon reaching into the gap in the tree bark the woman had pointed at. Apparently Charon was that stupid he groaned to himself, only to stop short when Charon pulled out a handful of gold coins from a modest sized bag.

"We accept," Charon told the lady.

"Tomorrow night. Just before dawn" She gave an imperceptible nod before turning back to the shadows from whence she had come.

Isaac threw down his sword and rounded on his friend. He shoved the man into the tree bark so hard that he dropped the bag full of gold coins.

"Murder? That's how low we've fallen now?"

"Look at what she left us Isaac," Charon said, "it's only half of the payment."

"We're not assassins."

"It'll be one time," Charon told him, "One time and we're set for life; a better life"

Isaac let the man go and turned around. His eyes inadvertently turned to where Flea was sleeping. A better life was all that he ever wished for. Born to a slave mother with an unknown father had left him with very few options in life. He longed for nothing much, just a chance.

With a heavy sigh he drew a hand over his coarse dark curls and short scruffy beard. He plopped down by the fire and took out his worn pack of cards, shuffling them almost as a reflex.

Isaac looked up and caught Charon's questioning gaze.

"We're not assassins," he repeated.

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

Treville buttoned close his long brown coat as he walked through the back doors of the Comte's château and followed the hearty laughter over the trimmed lawn out to the edge of the forest. Rene was sitting up against a decaying log, his head thrown back in loud mirth as Thomas stood a few feet away with a longbow clutched in his hand and his face streaked red.

"It keeps moving!" he growled and Rene laughed harder.

Behind Thomas about fifteen feet away, multiple rows of bags swayed to and fro on a rope tied among the branches of the front few trees. Between there and Thomas lay scattered arrows, broken or buried halfway into dirt and some even in the trees. The empty sacks fluttered with the slightest wind and the rope, that was looped just lose enough, jerked with the wind as well; not helping the archer.

"A longbow?" Treville asked as he neared the lad sitting on the ground.

"Builds patience and awareness," Rene made to shrug but stilled, he grinned instead.

Treville raised an inquisitive brow. If Rene understood the inquiry there he chose to misdirect. The lad smiled cheekily and went on to explain how essential it was to know about the wind, the angle of the shot and keeping a calm head when it comes to aiming.

"You're doing this just to frustrate me aren't you?" Thomas stalked over to the two of them and threw down the bow before he shrugged off the quiver.

"Ridiculous." he grouched.

Rene laughed again and reached for his friend. Before he could extend his arm much further and straighten his elbow, Thomas bent and grabbed his hand. Rene kept one arm around his chest even when Thomas pulled him to his feet in one fluid motion.

"You are hurt." Treville said.

"Astute observation," Rene smirked and motioned for Thomas to hand him the bow and the quiver.

Treville frowned; the halted movements and the limited reach spoke volumes to him. Unbidden to his mind came Thomas's words about Rene's uncle. Maybe he hadn't been exaggerating when he talked about the man beating the lad.

"Your uncle wasn't pleased with your duel in the market." He said and tried not to cringe as Rene settled the quiver on his back and raised the longbow. Treville saw the bruising as the sleeves fell back on the lad's arms.

But Rene notched the arrow and pulled back the string, then shifted and changed the direction of his bow. He was widely facing off to the side from the trees looped with the empty sacks. He let lose an arrow and then one after the other in quick succession shifting his angle in a limited arch at every shot.

He stopped with an empty quiver and a sharp breath. All the arrows had found their mark, pinning the sacks to branches and barks of the trees beyond. Rene looked to his friend with a smug grin.

"Ridiculous," Thomas shook his head with a scowl.

Rene laughed and dropped the longbow. Impressed as he was, Treville didn't miss the shaking in lad's hands nor did he miss the tremble in his shoulders as he let the quiver fall as well. One arm snaked around his lower chest again.

"He beat you," Treville tried to keep the judgment out of his voice. After all he wanted to meet a d'Herblay again if he could.

"Not a crime," Rene said.

"It should be." Thomas scowled at his friend.

"He is rather fond of his cane." Rene snorted and shrugged. The wince and the immediate stillness pulled on his tunic and Treville noticed the crisscross of thread across the small patch of skin at the top of the boy's shoulder.

Rene caught his eye but didn't try to hide it.

"It cracked this time." he said.

Of course it cracked; Treville clenched his jaw to keep from screaming at the lad. His hand's itched to grab this uncle d'Herblay's throat, Psychic or not, Felipa's clan or not, he felt an all consuming desire to wring this man's neck.

Instead he turned his attention to the boy who had saved him and then suffered for it.

"You put these in yourself?" he loathed to ask.

"We own mirrors, three of them." Rene smirked, "It's amazing how you can use them to see where your eyes can't reach."

Treville's hand rubbed his sore but healing wound as he tried to reign in the anger blazing under his skin. He hated suffering, hated it even more when children suffered, but this, this was beyond his understanding.

"Rene Aramis d'Herblay! You better not be dragging that poor lad into trouble again!" it was a woman who approached them and Treville's heart dropped like a stone in water; it dropped down to his knees and pinned in his exhale.

"I strive only to help him," Rene grinned, "both in and out of trouble."

The woman swatted his arm lightly and turned to regard the man in their group; her dark eyes widening. Treville straightened and took half a step forward before he stopped. His hands dropped back to his sides and clenched into fists lest he grabbed her to him.

She wasn't the same as he remembered her and yet she was. Older, more weary and more beautiful.

"Felipa," he said.

"Jean," Her eyes traced his face in surprised recognition and she drew closer to him, as though pulled by a force beyond her control.

But then she glanced from him to the two boys and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. With a smile that looked too forced, she stepped away from the man giving him a vague nod.

"Mother?" Rene looked from her to Treville.

It hit him then, harder and sharper then a musket ball, and Treville simply stared. Not at the woman but the boy; the boy who was exactly the right age, with olive skin, dark eyes and the texture of his hair that he had inherited from his mother. But the dark hair colour, that straight nose and those sharp features made Treville swallow to wet his suddenly parched throat, because they were his. This lad was...

Treville locked his knees to keep from swaying where he stood.

"Monsieur Treville and I knew each other once," Felipa told her son, "A long time ago."

Treville couldn't look away from the lad who shifted on his feet under the unexpected scrutiny. If Rene was who Treville thought he was...

The soldier suppressed a shiver and shook his head. Still he could not look away from the teenager.

"You two need to clean up the mess you've made," Felipa nodded towards the scattered arrows and empty quivers rolling in the grass.

"Are you alright?" Rene asked her, "You look pale."

"I'm fine," Felipa smiled, "Don't think you can charm me from letting you out of the cleanup."

"I'd never," Rene gaped in mock horror then laughed as he shifted out of his mother's smack and pulled Thomas after him.

An irrational desire shot up in Treville and he made to stop Rene. He pulled his hand to an abrupt halt in mid air and his finger's twitched at the opportunity forgone.

"He's a good lad," Felipa followed his gaze, "A bit impulsive."

"He is mine," It wasn't a question; Treville could not ignore what was staring at him so blatantly in the face.

Felipa touched his arm and he had to forcibly pull his gaze back. There was a storm in her dark eyes and a hard set in her jaw. He felt her anger and a warning growled in his mind, one that would have left a weaker man a shivering mess. She didn't need words to protect her child, she had power enough and Treville had a feeling she was holding back for his sake.

She would keep her child safe, even from him.

"Then why didn't you keep him from getting beaten black and blue?" The anger in his low voice was surprising even to him.

Felipa sighed and pulled back, her hand dropped and her presence receded from his mind as she looked to her son and not at the man beside her. Rene sat in a tree, pulling out the loops of rope and pointing out the arrows Thomas had missed. The young lord grumbled and cursed at his friend's helpful tips.

"You have no right to a child you didn't even know existed." She said.

"You never told me," it hurt to think about now.

"I wanted to, when you came home for dinner that night I was —" she clenched her teeth and shook her head, "It is done. Rene is my son, my responsibility and we have a life together."

That night he had been late, he had been told to stay back for his orders. If he had known about what awaited him at home Treville wondered if he would he would have made a different decision. Something stirred in the hollow of his chest as he watched Rene drop to the ground and land gracefully on his feet, only to cradle his chest with one hand and grab the bark with the other for support.

"Aramis," he did not look at Felipa this time, "You named him after my grandfather."

Regret was a stranger to Treville, he had been aggrieved by his decisions, felt his heart get torn up over them, but for the first time in his life he wished he could turn back the years he had lived. He wished to swim against the stream of time and go back to that one decision. He would place a musket on the head of his younger self and force that idiot to delay his words that night, to just hear what his wife had to say and he knew, he knew for sure as he now looked at his son that he would have chosen differently.

"Can he stay at the château for the night?" he asked the mother.

Felipa shook her head instantly; she glanced back at the building and shivered. Treville noticed her reaction and frowned, there may be various reasons why she wouldn't want him close to her son but there was fear in her eyes as she avoided looking at the château.

"You fear the house."

"I fear what lives in there." She said.

"The Comtesse,"

"She's too powerful," Felipa gave a sharp nod.

It was odd to hear her say that, this woman before him was the most powerful Psychic of her clan. Treville glanced back at the château and imagined that he could feel the eyes of the Comtesse watching them. Abruptly, he turned away from the building with a cloying feeling in the pit of his stomach and the prickling rise of the hair at the back of his neck.

He looked instead to Rene, whose laughter washed up to him like a balmy tide on a cold beach.

"I'll keep him safe, he will come back to you in the morning," he turned to the woman, "I will let no harm come to him."

"I cannot let you lead him into a promise you will not be able to keep." Felipa muttered as the boys began making their way towards them.

"Please, I ask for one night, only to get to know him and — we can be friends and nothing more, simply correspond through letters," he was not above begging for this, "I wouldn't tell him who I am; just a grateful soldier."

"The Comte wouldn't approve." She said.

"Olivier wouldn't approve what?" Thomas asked.

"I was wondering if we could invite Rene over for the night," Treville spoke before Felipa could, "We will spend the time sharing stories."

"Battle stories?" it was Rene who asked.

"I've had some experience," Treville said as he stamped down at the welling emotions that were stirred by the way Rene looked at him, in an almost childlike awe.

"Not too descriptive?" Thomas frowned.

"Kill joy," Rene scowled.

"Age appropriate," Treville couldn't help the teasing smile as Rene groaned in protest.

"I don't think Olivier would mind," Thomas shrugged, "And it's my house too you know."

Three pair of eyes turned to Felipa. She glared at the man. Her warnings echoed much louder in Treville's mind than in her gaze and he desperately made to show her that he meant the boy no harm. He had never been one to communicate through his thoughts, he wasn't gifted that way but he wanted her to know how much he was simply aching to get his son to look at him one more time. He hoped she could see the desire to protect that now throbbed somewhere in him with a ferocity that he hadn't imagined himself capable.

With a smile that didn't reach her eyes Felipa gave a sharp nod. Three faces grinned and she grabbed her son by the ear.

"You promised me two dresses done by the end of the day," she said.

"But I was working at the smithy all morning." He wriggled out her grasp.

"And you've had enough time for a break I think," she smirked and slightly shoved the lad ahead of her.

As Rene began making his way Felipa turned to the other two. Although she glared at both of them her words Treville knew were meant for him.

"Don't make me regret my decision," she said.

* * *

"You said you wouldn't be a part of this," Flea raised an eloquent brow as Isaac packed up his travelling gear.

"I said I wouldn't be an assassin." He picked up his worn bag and began settling it on his horse.

Charon had left with Gerald and Francis. Isaac had watched them ride out and beyond his view before he had began packing up his things. With any luck he'd be able to reach the château with the other three.

If Flea let him pass that is.

The slim girl with fierce blue eyes blocked his path to his horse. She crossed her arms and bestowed a chilled glare upon him.

"I thought you were different." She said.

"I'm following them, true. But I've said it before hadn't I?" Isaac drew closer to her, "I'm not an assassin."

"Then why are you — oh!" he eyes widened and Isaac smiled to see her catching on.

"I can't let them do it," Isaac nodded, "Not for their own sake."

Isaac knew his friend. Charon was hardened by the life dealt to him, but deep down his friend was a compassionate man if slightly dishonorable. Flea cocked her head and wrinkled her petite nose as she considered his reply. Isaac tried not to think how adorable he found that gesture.

"Fine," she turned around and made her way to her horse, "Let's see if we can get there before them."

"What?" Isaac hurried over to her, "No, no, no you're not coming with me."

"You think you can order me around do you?" Flea straightened in her saddle and glared down at him with an intensity that had Isaac flinching.

"I thought so," she smiled.

* * *

Dinner was a strained affair. It took every ounce of a soldier's control for Treville to keep a smile from his face. Tonight he would get to know his son.

His son, Treville marveled how thrilling a word could sound. Then glanced up to see the brothers' still locked in a staring contest across the long dining table. Olivier blinked first and turned his gaze to his food, spearing the meat with more force than necessary.

"I think your brother only asks that you let him know before you invite guests to our home." The Comtesse explained gently.

"And I think my brother can himself ask what he wants of me." Thomas snapped back.

"Thomas," his brother looked up.

"Olivier," the younger one locked eyes but they softened, "Why can't you see brother? He knew something, he talked to her, made her upset and then he was killed."

"Enough!" Olivier was on his feet.

The screech of his chair left a thick silence in the room. The shadows around the rings of candlelight breathed an eerie visage over the occupants. Treville was taken aback by the hard gleam in the Comtesse's eyes and the malicious edge to her smile; he wished that Olivier would just glance her way.

"Your guest has arrived My Lord." A servant announced even as he bowed.

"Bring him to Monsieur Treville's room," Thomas said as he pushed away his barely touched plate of food, "I would like to be excused." He said and left the table without a backwards glance.

Treville watched him go, listened until his footsteps receded into silence then turned to the young Comte. He didn't want to sound too eager but his appetite had fled as his mind drew blank at the sight of food.

"I think I should…," he got up from the table and inclined his head slightly in fleeting curtsey, "My Lord and Lady."

He was out of the room before any of its occupants had a chance to call him back. He marched up the stairs and hurried down to the corridor towards the guest chambers; only stopping when he had reached the door to the room assigned to him.

"You're still having those nightmares." It wasn't a question.

"I think she cursed me," was the reply half way between a groan and a huff.

Treville entered the room to find Thomas half sprawled on his back on the bed and Rene sat on the chair shaking his head. He grinned as the man closed the door and nodded towards his despondent friend.

"Would you please tell my friend here, that magic resides only in the flight of imagination." He said.

"She's a witch," Thomas countered.

"I never saw her with a broom," Rene snorted.

"She has magic and she's evil,"

"And she flies as a bat and sucks the blood dry out of babies," Rene added with mocking nod.

He got a pillow to his face for that one. As Rene laughed and teased his friend, Treville was suddenly struck with the realization that Felipa hadn't told their son anything about her abilities. It could be that the boy had no power, just like his father. Treville smiled at the thought, it would mean that he was safe from all the dangers that side of his family could bring.

"You promised us stories Monsieur Treville, so come and pull up a chair,"

That he did. It was well into the night by the time he was done with the tales of swashbuckling adventures of a soldier's life, one that were far too exciting and clear-cut to be real. Treville was surprised to find out that he possessed a hidden talent in storytelling that the eager audience had pulled out of him. He ended another glossed account that set Rene laughing.

Treville sat back in his chair and watched the boy with a tiny upturn at the corner of his lips and unmistakable wonder in his eyes. Every night could have been like this for him, could have been even better when his son would have been younger and he could have tossed the child in the air, caught him in a hug and mussed up his hair.

His gaze misted over and he blinked to note that Thomas's snores had grown louder. The lad had dozed off three stories back, sprawled onto the rug at the foot of the bed.

"I thought my stories deserved a better reaction," Treville smiled.

"He's been having nightmares, I'm just glad he's finally resting." Rene shook his head in fond exasperation.

"And what about you?" he asked lightly, though he could no longer ignore the stiff posture of his son that Treville had been keeping his eye on. Every hitch in his laugh and every shift in his seat to find comfort were like sharp knives to the father's heart. It left him wanting to tear apart this uncle of his son, this uncle that he knew nothing about; Treville frowned to himself. As far as he knew, Felipa was an only child.

"I sleep well enough," Rene managed an aborted shrug with a smile teasing his lips, "And I don't sound like a lazy furnace."

"The surgeon left me a salve for my bruises. You could try some," Treville made the offer in a casual tone then held his breath. As Rene looked down at his tunic covered arms Treville hoped fervently that he had not pushed past their budding friendship.

"I guess," his son finally gave a nod.

Treville grabbed the small tin-can from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and held it out to the boy; who took it with a quirk of his brow. The soldier shrugged and placed the lid on the bedside table, he was not going to tell the lad that he had been carrying around that thing in an effort to get inspiration on how to offer the salve to his boy.

His boy, Treville very nearly beamed at the thought until his gaze fell on the long marks of dark blue tinged with red that decorated Rene's arms. He pulled his face into neutral when he caught the boy glancing at him from under his dark bangs. Treville had a feeling that his anger would be misinterpreted as disgust and his concern as pity, he was sure the boy would be furious at both.

So he turned his attention to the young lord whose face was pressed into the rug. Treville winced at the thought of the epic rug burn that Thomas would soon be supporting. With that thought, the man began the endeavor of tucking a pillow under the teenager's head and a blanket under his body. Which was quite a struggle since the lad was dead weight and floppy.

Rene chuckled as Thomas slumped halfway into Treville's lap after socking the man in the face with his elbow and when the soldier glared at the sleeping heap; Rene threw back his head and laughed.

He missed the contentment that Treville was sure radiating through his very being at the sound of his son's mirth. One that vanished as his gaze fell onto the boy's bruised elbow. It was a swollen mass of black and blue, Treville wondered if the damage had gone to the bone. Tomorrow he would pay this uncle a visit; he would like to see what that child-beating scum was capable of when facing a man. He was so busy trying to quell his rising anger that he failed to notice the box of salve Rene held out to him.

"Thanks," said the boy.

"What about your back?" Treville frowned.

Rene's eyes widened for a second before he gave a nonchalant shrug. He could not hide the pain it cost him but his voice remained impassive.

"It's not that bad," he said.

Treville sighed, the boy would not ask for help. He was after all, the product his father's obstinacy and his mother's independence.

"May I….?" he wasn't sure if he should even ask but Treville prayed that the boy would allow it.

He saw Rene tense, watched with a bated breath as the lad studied the can of salve held in his fingers then looked up at the man before him.

Treville had faced many enemies, he had answered to various captains, he had been judged and he had been measured. But never in his life had he ever feared that he'd be felt wanting until he faced the wary scrutiny of his son.

"Why?" Rene asked

Because I care, because I'm your father, because you're hurting, Treville thought but did not voice.

"I owe you," he said instead.

"Alright." Rene gave a single nod and Treville felt something loosen in his chest. He inhaled lightly and took the salve from the boy.

Rene got up from his chair and for the first time since they had met, Treville found the boy looking unsure of himself. The soldier pushed himself off the bed and maneuvered the lad to sit on it. With their places swapped he motioned for the boy to take off his shirt.

It was a good thing that Rene's eyes were pinched shut at the movement or he would have seen the pure rage sparking in Treville's gaze as it fell on the jumble of welts; long, dark and in some places puffed grotesquely.

"Why don't you…uh lie down," Treville cleared his stuck throat and smiled at the lad.

The flinty brown gaze softened and Rene moved to lie on his side with his back towards the soldier. Treville could feel the soft heat radiating from the particularly swollen patches of skin. With pursed lips and gentle fingers he began massaging the salve into the worst of it first. He kept an eye out on the tension in the boy's shoulders and the rigid way he held himself even when lying down. It gradually dissolved with a barely audible sigh as the medicine took effect.

"Why let him do this to you?" he asked quietly.

"We live together, I can hardly escape him," Rene's voice was muffled from where his face was pressed into the pillow.

"Your mother…"

"We have an understanding," there was finality in the lad's tone.

Treville hummed and remained focused on his task, happy to feel the boy's posture relaxing as the pain slowly went numb. He glanced at the mop of loose dark curls and formed the question carefully in his mind. The two remained quiet for a while until Treville had gathered his courage.

"What of your father?" he asked.

"He's dead," Rene tensed again.

As Treville paused in his ministrations and closed his eyes in mute sorrow. The boy glanced back at him over his shoulder.

"He was the King's soldier," Rene settled back on the pillow, "he left to defend the crown before I was born and couldn't make it back."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Treville surprised himself by the steadiness in his own voice; "You and your mother must have missed him a lot."

"Mother doesn't like to talk about him," Rene mumbled as sleep pulled him, "she only ever says that he went to defend the crown."

Treville hummed his response; he could not risk the crack in his voice he was sure he wouldn't be able to avoid. Felipa didn't talk about him but Rene was sure that his father _couldn't_ make it back to him.

Had his son wondered about him, had he sat up late in his little bed waiting for him to come home? Had he traced the roads coming into his town thinking which would lead him to his father? Then one day, after one of his uncle's beatings, huddled in the rafters of some neighbor's barn, the boy had decided that his father wasn't coming back for him. And the only reason that he would accept was that because his father _couldn't_ come back for him. Had he doubted it? Had it hurt him to think otherwise? Had he cried?

Treville bit back a chocked sniffle as the moisture gathering in his eyes finally leaked out and trailed down to his chin. With a shaky hand he pulled the covers over Rene's shoulder and smoothed the bed cover for no particular reason. He raised his hand hesitantly, paused to stare at the steady rise and fall of his son's breathing, then slowly, cautiously, he laid his hand onto the mass of dark wavy hair.

It was unexpectedly soft and warm. Treville held back a sob as he let his hand just rest there, connected to his flesh and blood.

* * *

Frost covered windows sealed tight against the chill shone a pale gold from hearth fires. The streets lay silent. Isaac flitted in the shadows that chased each other across the walls and under trees as the half moon in the sky tussled with thin clouds. He had left the horses out of the village in case of a quick getaway and silently cursed the soft clomping of hooves that he was following.

Charon would wake the dead and join them in their eternal sleep with the racket he was creating, Isaac was sure of it. He glanced back to catch Flea move in a blur from the barn wall to crouch under the rimmed shadow of the town well. Poised and deadly like a lioness Isaac observed with a smile, then groaned softly and drew a hand over his face.

He needed to focus and not on the girl.

He puffed out a breath that rose in a cloud before his face and darted out from the side of the house where he had been hiding. He spied Charon and his group slowing down. They had dismounted under a large canopy and Isaac signaled for Flea to get ready. When the clouds next moved in front of the half moon, Isaac stepped up to block Charon's path.

"Come to your sense's now?" Charon grinned at him.

"Nah, was hopping you would though," Isaac crossed his arms and stared back evenly at his friend, "We're better than this Charon and you know it."

"We're better?" Charon stepped closer to him, "Our children starve, our old freeze to death and our women are beaten by anyone who fancies it. How are we better Isaac?"

"We don't kill in cold blood." Isaac straightened his shoulders and easily towered over the other man.

Charon gave a dry laugh and shook his head. The fluttering moonlight cast a hard edge on his features and a bitter sharpness in his smile.

"We're all sinners at the Court," he said, "What is one more my friend?"

"No, we're survivors," Isaac grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and hauled him up and closer, "There is no coming back from this Charon, you take a life and there's no returning it. You need to think if it's worth it."

"Worth it? You tell me it it's worth it?" Charon spat, "Is it worth for a chance at a better life? Is it worth it to have for once in our lives a fully belly, a warm hearth and no fear of it being snatched from us? I think yes don't you? Weren't you the one always going on about a better life? Didn't the great Issac d'Porthos always wanted to find a life out of the Court?"

"Yes I want a better life," Isaac shook the man in his grip, "A better life that has honor, a purpose and…" he broke off as he caught sight of Flea from the corner of his eyes.

He could not say that he wanted a life where he belonged, could not tell his friends that despite all they had went through together he had never felt that he was a part of something, that he had a home.

He could not tell them because he knew, 'you don't turn your back to the Court;' a sentiment that the king o' the court had beaten into him at an early age.

"I'm sorry my friend," Charon said.

Isaac's gaze snapped back and caught his friend's eyes just as pain exploded in his head. Distantly he heard Flea scream as the shadows around him settled into darkness.

* * *

TBC

 **I hope it was not too sappy.**

 **Please Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**WARNING: CANON CHARACTER DEATH**

* * *

Rene awoke with a jerk and a gasp. He exhaled slowly through his nose to calm his erratic heartbeat and looked to his side to find Treville. The man had sat up in his chair and was staring at him with concern shinning in his blue eyes. The soldier placed a hand on his shoulder, a gentle, grounding pressure.

"Rene?" he asked.

The boy closed his eyes because there it was again, this genuine concern that unnerved him. Sure he made friends easily, was well liked by people in general but no one other than his mother had shown that they cared, that they worried about him. Yet this soldier….

"What is it Rene?"

"Nothing, I just…" Rene drew a hand through his hair and looked about the room; he couldn't actually explain what had woken him, just a feeling, just this sense, like a pull in his breath.

"Something's wrong," he shrugged.

Treville frowned and glanced around the room as though he expected to find the answer floating around somewhere in the air about them. If the man offered to check for ghosts in the cupboard and the monsters under the bed, Rene was going to lose it. He was about to tell the soldier that it was nothing, when he felt it again; this time a twang in his head right behind his eyes, like a gong from a warning bell.

"Rene?" Treville sounded worried but before he could continue, the unmistakable sound of breaking glass scattered in the air.

Thomas sat up with a snort, just as Treville's hand went to his side for the sword that wasn't there. Rene pushed himself off the bed and handed Treville his sword, musket and pistol from the crook between bed and the bedside table.

"Could be the servants," Thomas offered as he rubbed sleep from his eyes and stood up clumsily.

"Or your brother could have had one too many glass of wine?" Rene grinned although he could not tear his gaze away from the door.

"You two stay here, I'll go and check." Treville made for the door but Rene stopped him.

It pulled on the swollen bruise on his right elbow and drew a hiss through his clenched teeth. He silently cursed his oversight and dropped the hand from the soldier's arm. The concern in Treville's face did nothing to sooth his nerves.

"You don't know the house; if it's robbers they'll be able to ambush you easily." He said.

"But I know the house," Thomas nodded eagerly.

"I'm not staying behind," Rene added.

He saw the pained look cross Treville's face as his head turned from one boy to the other. His hands flew as he loaded his pistol and then the musket before he sighed and gave a reluctant nod. He held out his pistol to Rene, handle first.

"You know how to use it?" he asked.

Rene raised his right hand in a fist with his index finger extended for the muzzle and the thumb out as the switch.

"Bang," he grinned at the man.

Treville huffed, somewhere in between amusement and exasperation. With a shake of his head he quickly explained how to load the thing and handed over a small pouch of ammunition to the boy. He warned him only to use it if it was absolutely necessary, Rene was just glad that he didn't define what 'necessary' was.

"You stay between us," Treville turned to Thomas.

"Let's check on the sleeping quarters first," the boy nodded, "Olivier may have heard it as well."

That was how they found themselves in the long second floor corridor of the château. With Treville in the front, his sword and musket at the ready, they silently moved through the pale light of the too few lamps that were alight at this hour.

The still eyes of the painted royalties tracked their movements as they stopped in front of a door that Rene recognized as Thomas's room. Treville frowned as he motioned for them to stay quiet and move back. Rene pulled his friend behind him as Treville softly pushed the door open.

The air split with a deafening crack and drove splinters of wood exploding out in the wake of the metal ball that had hit the door. Rene barely registered the smell of gunpowder before Treville plunged into the darkness of the room.

With an arm keeping Thomas flat against the wall, Rene peered through the open door. The pistol sat frighteningly comfortable in his grip as he tracked the flitting shadows cast by the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick curtains. The heavy curtains rustled in the scarcely moving air, four distinct heavy gaits shuffled and he marked out a silhouette that was definitely not their friendly soldier.

Rene fired a shot; felt the recoil jolt up his arm and send shockwaves of pain out from his injured elbow, but he never got the chance to see the man fall as he was pushed aside by none other than Olivier. The young Comte didn't even spare him a glance as he swooped into the action that had erupted inside the room.

"I got Olivier, everything will be fine now," Thomas spoke from beside him.

Rene stared at his friend who was gulping down air and wondered when the boy had even disappeared from his hold. He didn't get to sound his confusion as he felt something ram against his mind, there was no other way to explain the invisible hit he felt.

Rene flinched and stared at the young woman dressed in a silk nightgown, the crimson cloak thrown over her cream coloured attire pooled around her frame and spilled in half a circle down by her feet.

"My brother asked you to stay in your room," Thomas growled at her.

"So it is you," the Comtesse spoke but not to her brother-in-law.

Rene looked her in the eyes and felt her gaze rake over his skin like a nail-bed, the pressure increased as her eyes remained focused on him. The prickle gradually became sore but Rene denied her the enjoyment of watching him squirm.

"You were the one blocking my nightmares tonight," she smiled as her presence forced against his, "No wonder I could not compel this pathetic excuse of a lord. You've been protecting him without even realizing it. You're a strong one aren't you?"

Rene gasped as he felt her pull back. He had no idea what was going on here, maybe the Comtesse had lost her mind and maybe he had as well but one thing was clear. Thomas was in danger.

Rene didn't even register when he had stepped between his friend and the Comtesse. He only realized that he had squished his friend between himself and the wall when he heard Thomas speak.

"Rene? Milady?" his friend looked from one to the other.

"Awww, you wish to keep him safe," The Comtesse smiled as she drew closer to Rene, "But you've got the wrong brother. This one here can't tether and the one who can won't. I think he's protected, bespoken most likely, my dear husband."

Rene stepped closer to the woman as she spoke and motioned for Thomas to make a run for it. He felt his friend shift from behind him and saw her hand extend from the corner of his eye. He was surprised by the almost gentle touch to his forehead. But the contact blew the lights out of his consciousness.

* * *

Treville heard the pistol fire and suddenly found himself engaged from both sides. His footwork was hampered by the darkness and the furniture wounded him more than his two opponents, who fortunately were not much skilled. Yet the situation was in hand when Olivier charged in.

He made short work of one of them while the other robber dissolved into the shadows again. For a moment there was silence but then the loud sound of ripping curtains announced the robber having escaped through the window. Treville dashed after him, scaled down the wall in his pursuit and only realized that Olivier had followed when the young man let go at half a distance and tackled the robber.

The scuffle only lasted a second, Olivier was unarmed and off balance, the robber knocked him out with a blow to his head. Treville gripped his sword tighter as he stepped over the young Comte and pressed the tip of his blade to the robber's throat.

He heard the snick of a pistol readying and glanced at the muzzle a few inches away from his stomach. This was it; Treville swallowed reflexively. He knew the fastest swordsman couldn't out-speed a musket ball, but he would take his murderer with him.

A shot rang out suddenly and the ground rushed to meet him before Treville could even deliver a scratch unto his assailant. He hit the ground with a enough force to rattle every bone in his body. The grass under his side was cold and wet with dew, the sky above streaked with thin clouds and his vision fogged by his own breath that plumed in staccato bursts.

Vaguely he heard the twin clatter of a pair of horses ridding off. Treviile breathed deeply and dug his fingers in the ground as a shadow loomed over him.

"You bloody stubborn arse!" a clearly female voice snarled as the figure above him bent and grabbed the weight on Treville's side.

It was then the soldier saw that the pain was radiating from his ribs and not his stomach, and that there had been a warm weight on his side; one that the girl with sun coloured hair had rolled off of him.

It was a young man, scruffy, dark skinned and bleeding from his side. The stain was spreading at an alarming rate even as the wounded man clutched at it.

"Gut shot?" the man ground out as the girl lifted his hands away to look at the gorge that the ball had blazed into his side.

"No. It's a graze," it was Treville who replied, ever the soldier he could recognize the battle wounds even in the shifting moonlight. "You saved my life, thank you." He added with a squeeze onto the injured man's shoulder as the girl hastily pressed her scarf to his wound.

"You're a stubborn arse Isaac," she growled.

"Heard you the first time," Issac smiled at her and motioned for Treville to help him sit up. The girl almost hissed as the soldier pulled the nearly gasping young man upright. He kept a hand on his arm just in case.

"I'm alright Flea," Isaac got his breathing under control, "Just a graze."

"I know someone who'll patch you up in a minute," Treville patted his savior's arm and glanced back to Olivier who was coming around.

As the young Comte steadied himself on his feet, Treville wondered about the two boys he had left up in the corridor. He sincerely hoped that they had the good sense to stay out of trouble but he wasn't holding his breath. In the short time that he had known his son; the boy had shown nothing less than honest obliviousness to his own well being and an unhealthy capacity to help.

"I'm going after him," Olivier pushed himself towards the stables after having retrieved his discarded sword, "I'll drag him back to justice tied behind my horse," he growled and moved with a single minded vigor although his steps were unsteady.

It was the maid who stopped him before Treville could. She burst through the door like a shrieking ghost in the waning night; her hair undone and the long nightdress tripping up her feet.

"They're gone my lord!" she collapsed before the young Comte, "I tried to stop her. But she dragged them away….."

"What are you talking about?"

"The witch sire," she sobbed, "She took the lads, she dragged the boys away."

The ground under Treville suddenly felt like a bog, he was sinking where he stood. As Olivier frowned down at the maid and questioned her faster than her sobbing would allow the answers, Treville simply gaped. Because no, it wasn't possible, he had not just lost his boy to the very woman Felipa had been afraid off.

"She isn't making any sense," Olivier ran a hand through his hair as he returned to his feet, "Was there a woman with the robbers?"

"No," Treville shook himself out of the reverie, "No; you need to go after her. Olivier you might be the only one who could talk her down."

"What?"'

"It's your wife you foolish boy!" Treville snapped at him, "Take your horse and follow them, they went out towards the forest."

"My wife….?"

"Olivier if you love your brother even a fraction of what your father alluded to you will follow my orders in this." Treville grasped the man by the back of his neck and looked into his eyes, "I'll be following you as soon as I can. Talk her down; she might just be confused and scared but be careful; she is far more dangerous than you can imagine. Find her Olivier; your brother needs you to."

It was a relief when the young Comte nodded. Treville watched him go to the stables and wondered momentarily what an amazing Lieutenant the man could make. Direct orders and vague missions, the bread and butter of such a post and the young Comte hadn't batted an eye.

With a rueful shake of his head, Treville turned to Isaac who was on his feet and leaning heavily against Flea. He slipped under the young man's arm and took his weight. They had only covered the grounds of the château when he realized that he had no idea where Felipa lived.

As though conjured by his wondering he saw the woman approaching him. He felt the sharp slap of her presence before he could even see her features and wasn't surprised when her palm connected with his face. He only held his ground for the sake of the injured man he was supporting, but when he looked in her eyes that were bright with unshed tears, for the second time that night Treville felt the ground drop from under his feet.

* * *

The moistened smell of wood was the first thing he registered, his wrists tied together was the next. _Forest,_ his mind supplied as realized that he was lying on the ground under open sky, if the twigs' sticking in his side and the cold press of the earth was anything to go by. _So a clearing_ , Rene mused as he moved his feet experimentally and was relieved to find them free.

" _I didn't think you would want to run,"_ the voice resounded inside his head, _"Seeing as you are so insistently protecting this useless lump."_

Rene blinked open his eyes to glance from the ground to the dark skinned, bald man squatting a few feet away and then to the woman standing between him and the prone form of Thomas.

" _No, he's not dead yet,"_ the voice was in his head again, answering questions he hadn't yet formed, _"Can't kill him with your shields around him."_

"What are you?" Rene pushed himself until he was on his knees.

His hands clenched in the ground to keep from swaying. He wasn't sure if it was the graying of his own vision or the pale moonlight that had washed out the colour from the world around him. With a glance he noted that he was in a forest, in a clearing to be more precise. Rene silently congratulated himself on guessing where he was; if only he now knew what the hell was going on.

He frowned and sat back on his knees as the Comtesse moved closer to him.

"I'm the same as you are, or almost something like you," the Comtesse shrugged as she twirled a dagger between her fingers, "I'm the tether to your kind, if you must insist on the details of it."

"My kind?" Rene looked up at her.

"Oh yes," she came to stand before him and reached to smooth back the hair fallen over his face. Rene was ashamed to note that he flinched. The Comtesse only smiled and tipped up his chin.

"Although you seem different," she said, as her dark eyes bore into his.

Rene felt her like he would a dagger piercing between his ribs. It felt like there were sharp talons cutting into his lungs while a dark presence moved through his mind. It was insistent and searching, groping into the depths of his very being until Rene felt sweat breaking over his brow.

"Tenacious you are young one," the Comtesse let go of his face.

Rene almost pitched forward on his face but his bound hands took the brunt of it. He refused to appear helpless and pushed himself straight again only to gasp harshly; there was not enough air for him to inhale and his lungs felt as though they had wilted.

Shivers racked his frame as the cold hit his skin again and he briefly heard his mother admonishing him for leaving the house without his jacket.

"She has sheltered you quite remarkably," the Comtesse nodded, "I'd have sensed you otherwise."

He tensed at the mention of his mother. He had no idea that the Comtesse even knew about her. Rene shook his head and managed a dry chuckle that was coldly devoid of any mirth. There were a lot of things that weren't making a speck of sense of to him but he knew they had to get away from this deranged woman.

With an effort he moved to his feet and hoped Thomas would wake up soon, because his head was aching fiercely and he doubted that he had enough strength in his limbs to support himself yet alone his friend. He forced himself straight and glared at the Comtesse.

"If it's me you want then let Thomas go," Rene was surprised how calm his voice sounded.

"If only," she smiled at him and pressed the tip of the dagger into the pad of her finger, "Unfortunately, Thomas has to die, something to do with the grand scheme of things."

"Why don't you kill that whelp already?" The man crouched on the protruding tree root spoke up.

"I'll give you the honours to justify your payment," the Comtesse handed him the dagger hilt first.

The man leapt towards his prey and bent near Thomas. He raised the boy's head with a fist in his hair. Rene grit his teeth against the world lurching around him and hurriedly stumbled forward, denial falling from his lips in whispers and his bound hands outstretched.

"No, no, no, no….." he couldn't reach the man in time.

He saw the blade flash as it lowered on his friend's exposed throat and then gasped as he saw the man go flying back, nearly clipping him on his way.

Rene swayed where he stood. His headache rising multiple notches, but Thomas was still alive and the dagger lay harmlessly by his head.

"He's protecting him," the Comtesse smiled, "Although I don't think he knows what he's doing or how."

"He is right here and would appreciate if you act so," Rene glared at here.

"Such spirit," The Comtesse grinned at him, "It will be my pleasure to break it."

She cocked her head to her side and here grin widened. She raised a hand and Rene had to bite back a squeak when he witnessed the man float forward to her.

The Comtesse regarded the man hanging in mid air and Rene had a feeling that up until now the poor bastard had no idea who or what exactly had he been dealing with.

"My husband has come looking, why don't you delay him awhile my dear Charon?"

"Of course Milady."

"Good," the Comtesse set him down none too gently and then raised her hand towards Rene.

He felt the air under his feet and the invisible pull before he was staring into her dark eyes. There was a malicious promise in those depths and Rene shuddered involuntarily. Although he never said a word, his mind screamed for help, for anyone to listen and interfere if not rescue.

"Let's see if I can convince you to let go of this idiot." She smiled

* * *

"I warned you not to make me regret it!" Felipa roared at the soldier even as she neatly bound the wound of the man sitting on the table between them.

Isaac hissed and cast a terrified glance towards Flea. The woman tending to him looked down at her hands and apologized to the man before taking some more rolls of bandages from the young girl. She looked back at the light haired young woman and frowned.

"There's water out in the bucket why don't you clean off that blood?"

Flea nodded and scurried out, carefully avoiding Isaac's pleading gaze. He would have followed her out if it wasn't for blood loss and whatever the woman had given him to ease the pain of his wound. As it was he was feeling more than a little adrift.

The younger man squirmed in his seat to keep from listing to the side and watched Flea leave with a sense of helplessness. He glanced at the soldier pacing the small room and wished that he would stop; there was no need to add any more movement in his already quivering view.

Another man stumbled down from the stairs and leaned against the rickety banister.

"What's going on 'ere?"

"Go back to bed Remi. It's nothing you need to be concerned with." Felipa snapped at him without looking his way.

Isaac watched the man grumble under his breath and stagger back up the stairs. The harsh sound of the door banging close rattled through the small house. The woman paid no mind to the few rolls of cloth that slipped from where they were leant against the wall and landed on a chair with a loud thump.

Isaac frowned because they might not have slipped; it may have been just a trick of his addled mind since no one else seemed to notice the racket and the sheer amount of colours around them. The room was filled to the brink with colours, dark, bright, shiny, rough, silky, Isaac groaned in an effort to keep from throwing up.

"No one was hurt by uh….the robbers?" he asked.

"Two men killed, one escaped;" Came the short reply from the soldier who was frowning at the stairs Remi had just vacated.

Isaac closed his eyes in sorrow that had nothing to do with the dulling ache in his side. He hadn't known Gerald and Francis as well as he did Charon and Flea, but he considered everyone at the Court of Miracles as his family. They were bounded together with misery; something Isaac believed was far more potent than any other emotion.

He opened his eyes as he felt the woman tending to his wounds back away and glanced up to catch the soldier staring at him; the sharp blue eyes frighteningly piercing in the warm glow of the many candles.

Isaac looked away and tried to focus his gaze on anything but the man standing before him. As his eyes skittered along the rolls of cloth and spools of thread he wondered if it was safe to light so many candles in this room and have an open fire in the hearth no less.

"You knew those robbers," Treville moved closer to him, "then you know of her plan too."

Isaac shook his head, 'you don't turn your back on the Court,' he remembered. Betrayal towards those of the Court was a crime punishable by death on sight and the Court had eyes everywhere. But the pain in his side was a proof that his friend was in trouble; if he came clean now, this soldier might help him save Charon from himself.

"Please, there are lives at stake," said Treville.

"The Cardinal sent us to scare you away from the Comte," Isaac spoke at last.

He saw the recognition dawn in Treville's eyes as the pieces fell into place. The soldier nodded.

"The Comte is an excellent swordsman; the Cardinal wants him to head a regiment of the Red Guard." Treville nodded more to himself, "I wouldn't be surprised to see his envoys arriving with the offer. But how do you know the Comtesse?"

Isaac sighed and explained the ghost appearing in their camp in the forest and how it went from there. He half expected the man to laugh at him while his other half feared that he would invoke the wrath of the soldier for telling him false tales. He nearly cringed when Treville reached forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You are a good man Monsieur Isaac," he said and turned to collect his sword and musket from the table on which sat the wounded man.

"I'm going with you," Isaac halfway jumped at the declaration, he had forgotten about the woman who was in the room with them.

"I can't let you,"

"Let me? Let me?" she stood toe to toe with the soldier despite being a head shorter than him, "Jean-Armand Treville you are in no position to entertain such notions."

"Felipa I –"

"No! How are you even going to find him?" Felipa didn't wait for an answer and barreled on, "I can find him. One knot to another, I can sense him."

"Do you think the Comtesse could sense him too?"

"I had him veiled with my presence," she shook her head.

"Does he know about any of this? About how to use this…?"

"No." Felipa snapped at him, "and he cannot know about."

Isaac cringed as a headache hit him with all the strength of a runaway carriage and frowned as the woman facing off against the soldier reeled suddenly. The man gasped even as he kept her from losing her footing and the two of them turned to stare at the front door as one.

"He's in trouble," was all Treville said as he pulled open the door and disappeared out into the pale darkness with Felipa at his heels.

Isaac sat wondering about what he had heard. He had inferred that the Comtesse was the ghost he had encountered but then she was alive, he reminded himself and frowned. All this talk of tethers and knots and sensing and ghosts that were not ghosts had left his tired brain even more muddled.

He stared at the bowl in his hand that had held the pain-relief concoction that he had drank. Isaac decided never to drink a pain-relief potion ever again.

* * *

Contrary to what people believed, Olivier was actually a man of feelings. Love, hate, anger, joy, he felt the entire spectrum and he actually felt them deeply; it was only the mask of propriety knitted from an early age that never allowed those feelings to air.

As it was, Olivier was seething as he rode his horse like a gale through the narrow dirt paths of the forest, flying over shrubbery and roots and gliding from one track to the next.

He hadn't had anything more than a general direction to go in and his target had had ample time to slip a long distance between them. He had been riding blind when it had hit him, clarity, something of the same note that had been the haze of his love for his wife but much sharper, natural and vibrant, like sunshine shredding through a cloud cover. Olivier simply knew where he was supposed to go.

That was why he was not surprised when he was tackled off his horse. That same clarity that had guided him helped him in keeping his wits and to turn mid-fall so that his assailant landed under him.

He lost his sword in the scuffle that followed. His attacker clocked him in the face and Olivier fell to his knees with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Momentarily shocked, he blinked to clear the dancing spots of light in his vision.

He swayed to his feet and spat aside the blood before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His brother's life was in danger, possibly at the hands of his loving wife; Olivier hadn't the time to spare.

His light blue eyes hardened like ice over the ocean. A ruthless gleam edged his glare as he stood unarmed, in the pale darkness of pre-dawn, to face his opponent again.

* * *

Pain was the hem of everything in his life that had tried to tame him. It was a brink he danced on, stepping on it over and over again until it widened and gave room to his restless spirit. Rene always saw pain as a challenge.

Yet this woman brought upon him a level of agony that threatened to cut him off at his knees. She was sawing into him with a rusty blade in an effort to hack off the very reach of his mind. Her presence was nearly solid in his thoughts and for the first time in his life Rene felt the pulsing core of strength within him as it struggled to push out the invasion.

"How had that not hurt you?" The Cometesse growled through clenched teeth as she pulled back to regroup.

"Who says it didn't?" Rene chuckled from where he had fallen back to his knees.

He looked up at the heaving woman who was wiping the blood that had trickled down her nose. The night was at an end; the sky had paled above him and the world around them was awash in lightening grey. He suppressed a shiver and grinned instead.

"What are you so happy about?" she loomed closer to him.

Rene shrugged, hoping against hope that Thomas would come around soon, in the meantime he planned to enjoy pulling at the fraying ends of the Comtesses's control. The woman grasped him by the hair and made him look in her eyes.

It wasn't a fight; he had no chance against her as she moved through his mind like a whirlwind of blades. It left him chocked and sluggish as he blinked to clear his vision when he felt her pull back again. Something warm, sticky – blood – his mind offered, poured forth from his nostrils and down his chin.

The Comtesse let go of him with a grunt and he slumped, he hadn't the strength to lift his head up but he refused to fall flat on his face. As he braced himself with his bound hands, Rene caught the flash of movement behind the Comtesse. He saw Thomas charging at the unaware woman with a thick branch raised above his head like a sword.

The Comtesse turned at the last minute and with a flick of her wrist sent the boy flying. Rene breathed a sigh of relief when he landed on the cold-dried shrubbery. His friend was staggering back to his feet almost instantly and Rene wished that he would just get out of there.

"Run," he whispered, "Please run,"

He gathered the scattered bits of his fast depleting strength and pushed his head up to look at his friend. There gazes locked and Rene silently implored for the boy to listen to him this once.

"RUN!" he screamed too late.

Rene watched in horror as the Comtesse lunged at his friend with the dagger, her arm pinning his neck to the tree behind him. The tip of the dagger stopped mere inches from Thomas's chest. The boy struggled, but the second the Comtesse looked into his eyes Thomas went limp. She pushed against the invisible barrier and it was Rene who felt the strain.

He was past the point of surprise by then. If his wish to have his friend safe was actually keeping him safe then Rene swore to wish just that until his last breath. So he wished it, he repeated it in a loop in his mind even as darkness encroached the corners of his vision, he wished it even as his head felt like it would burst open, he wished it as he felt more liquid warmth trailing down his chin, he wished it still until his bleary vision tunneled onto the two figures against the tree.

He didn't see Olivier as he burst through the trees, he only felt the waver in the Comtesse's strength and like a sudden slack in a taught rope it unbalanced his focus. He felt rather then saw the blade that pierced his friend's heart.

"No," he whispered and for the first time in his life Rene pushed his mind into the offensive.

His strike was powerful enough to knockout the Comtesse. But he was too late, she had won, the blade she held glistened with his friend's blood and Rene felt his eyes burn with an all together different sort of pain. A sick, dirty feeling roiled in the pit of his stomach and his tunneled vision shrunk to a pinprick. Rene welcomed the darkness as his world was snuffed out.

* * *

 **TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: I thought the fourth would be the last chapter but then this sort of happened. There's a lack of action but it seems like this chapter was needed.**

* * *

Olivier believed in justice so that every wrong had a right, every fall a rise. When he had lost his mother the news had come with a tiny bundle settled in his young arms. His mother had died but his brother was born. Then he lost his father, but the funeral was followed by marriage, the bells changed their pitch and the black procession gave way to white.

But as he stared at the still form of his brother slumped against a tree his world tripped off its equilibrium. His dazed eyes stared at the woman lying a few feet from Thomas, the blood stained dagger clutched in her limp hand.

He had seen it, witnesses his wife slide the blade into his brother's chest, past the ribs into the heart; he had seen his wife murder his brother. He didn't know why she had fainted with a shriek, he didn't care if she was dead or unconscious, didn't even care if she was faking it.

He staggered past her, gaze skittering over to his brother's face and down to the blood stained chest that did not move. He knew it would not, his educated mind had reasoned as such, but the ache in his chest screamed for a different scenario and begged for a miracle.

He didn't feel himself crash to his knees, didn't feel the pain as it shook through his bruises. Torn knuckles smoothed against his brother's scraped cheek, shaky fingers pressed onto the long silenced pulse point and a low shrill keening sound broke through the quite.

"No, no, no, no, no," Olivier grabbed his brother to him.

He crushed him in an embrace as his own heart squeezed under the iron hold of a grief so overwhelming that Olivier gasped. He pulled his brother even closer, dug his fingers in his hair and clumsily gathered him to himself. The cold face pressed into his shoulder remained slack; the weight in his lap sickeningly pliant.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he rocked back and forth until his knees went numb and he could neither feel his fingers nor his toes.

Then he just leaned back against the tree Thomas had died beside, pulled his brother in his arms and sat staring at nothing at all as the gray sky turned blue.

That was how Treville and Felipa found him.

Treville simply blinked at the scene before him. Thomas was dead; the Comte was alive but lost on some plain Treville just knew he wouldn't be able to reach him. Neither had he had the heart to try at the time, not when his own son was lying unresponsive a few feet away.

He gently rolled the boy onto his back and chocked at the sight of clumps of earth and dried blood sticking to the lower half of his face. His trembling hands searched for a heartbeat and Treville sagged in relief at finding one, a bit fast but there.

Felipa was murmuring something with her eyes closed and her hand clenched in their son's hair, but Treville merely spared her a glance as he took his boot-knife to the bindings around Rene's wrists. Once they were off he threw them as far away as he could without looking away from his son.

Treville shrugged out of his long brown coat and gently wrapped the boy in it. Putting an arm under his neck and another around his waist he pulled Rene close. The docile quietness of the boy frightened him.

Treville used his sleeve to carefully wipe away the blood and grime from his son's face, his burning eyes willing the boy to respond to his touch. He knew he should check on the Comte, he was aware of the sorrow in Fleipa's trembling hands but he could not look away for the fear of missing any sign of awareness returning to his boy.

Later he would not remember how long he sat there, only that when Felipa looked up at him the sun was already shinning and the birds had come out in search of breakfast. Rene had been quite and still through it all.

"He can't stay here now," Felipa shook her head sadly, "He has revealed himself, too many would come looking for him."

"We need to get back," Treville found his voice as he glanced down at his son in his arms and then at the young man cradling Thomas. He was selfishly thankful that at least his precious bundle drew breath.

"I'll bring back a cart," Felipa nodded.

She bent to press a kiss onto her son's hair and then stood with a purpose. Treville couldn't keep the love from his gaze as he watched her composed and on the task. She had always been the strong one in their relationship.

As the clatter of hooves retreated, he glanced again at the too still form of the young man sitting at the other side of the clearing. Olivier had yet to say a word.

With a sigh Treville settled Rene on the ground, stroked the dark hair once and adjusted the coat around him. With a final lingering glance at his son, he pushed to his feet.

He secured the Comtesse first. With his belt he tied her hands but fervently hoped that she would stay unconscious for a while at least, he had a feeling she wouldn't need her hands much if it came down to a fight. Treville wondered if Felipa could help in keeping her restrained, he would have to take her to Paris and present her to the royal court for murder charges.

Once he was sure that the Comtesse would not be able to wriggle out of her bindings he turned to Olivier. The light blue eyes were open at half mast and stared through the soldier as he approached the Comte like he would a skittish horse.

"My lord?" he spoke gently.

It garnered no response and Treville pushed himself closer to the man. He laid a hand on the Comte's arm and gave him a little shake.

"My lord?" he tried again, "Olivier?"

That time he was rewarded with a slow blink. The faraway gaze slanted towards him, slipped off his face and down to his feet, and then rolled away again. Treville breathed deeply and touched the hand clasping Thomas's shoulder.

Instantly the Comte bowed into himself, his body hunched over his brother's. The hazy eyes turned wild and the flash of fear in there had Treville swallowing hard. He had seen this before, men who had seen too much loss could wander off into their own mind. He had to get the Comte back to the reality no matter how harsh it was.

"Olivier you need to snap out of it." He gripped the Comte tighter and gave him another shake.

The young man looked from him to the body in his arms then back up at the soldier. He shook his head firmly. His torn knuckles split even more as he clenched his fists tighter and held the body closer.

"No," a hoarse whisper broke his silence.

"He's gone Olivier," Treville managed past the lump in his throat, "You have to let him go."

"No,"

"Olivier,"

"NO!"

"He's dead." The soft confession had the Comte flinching.

He slammed his head back into the tree-bark and Treville cringed. The Comte already had a head injury if the bruise on the side of his face and the sluggishly bleeding wound at above his temple as to go by; he didn't need to add to it.

But then the light blue eyes turned sharper, the gaze became focused and when Olivier again looked at Treville there was recognition in his stare. Carefully he lowered his brother to the ground, with stiff fingers and sore muscles he moved Thomas until he was lying straight with his hands clasped on his motionless chest.

"Is she…?" he nodded towards the Comtesse.

"Unconscious,"

"Do you know why…?"

"I have no idea."

"She'll pay for this."

"She'll get what she deserves Olivier,"

"I want to see her hanged." The straight face and the cold blank stare made Treville take a step back. There was numbness in the expressionless face that cut him to his core and he instinctually moved to clasp the young man's shoulder.

But the Comte pointedly stepped away from his reach. In their short acquaintance the young lord had never been a welcoming presence but the near tangible chill that now hung about him sparked a twinge of worry in Treville.

They both turned at the squeaking moan of cart wheels. Felipa pulled her horse and cart to a stop and behind her with another cart, Remi did as well.

It was a strained ride. Treville had assumed that the Comte would not want to be anywhere near his wife and at his subtle insinuation towards such had left Felipa entirely too pale. She was not going to have the Comtesse so close to their child again.

But then the problem was abruptly solved as Olivier picked up his still unconscious wife and placed her in the cart behind Remi's horse. He pushed back an errant curl that had spilled onto her face and his blank face slipped a fraction, the agony behind it had Treville looking away.

He focused instead on settling Thomas into Olivier's arms and tried to ignore how similarly floppy the lad was in his sleep and in his death. As the cart pulled away from them with a lurch, Treville wondered if all this could have been prevented, could he have saved the boy if he had believed him or at least had pretended to.

As the cart he sat in hit a pothole Treville glanced down at his son's head in his lap. He worried, not for the dead but the living. He worried for his son who was still unconscious, for the murderess who was too powerful and the young Comte who seemed to have frozen from inside out as he had sat in the clearing holding on to his dead brother.

* * *

He could not use Thomas's room, it looked like a silenced battlefield and rightly so. The night had been a battle in much more than an obvious sense of the word. And there were casualties; death had claimed more than just a single human soul, it had ripped away the light from another life as well, it had torn up its faith to shreds.

Olivier gritted his teeth as he carried his brother to one of the many guest-rooms. His movements steady and gentle, there was no hint of the tremors he felt rolling just under his skin. The servants crowded in after him, some sniffling some weeping openly.

He had no patience for that.

So he left, not daring a glance towards his brother's face. He could not, not after what he had done, not after what he had let happen. He marched out of there with all the poise of his upbringing and found himself in the cellar.

His wife was tied to a chair in there. But he was looking for something else in the musty darkness, something to fortify himself against the answers he searched. He was not the strong one as he was believed to be, he was not the composed one as he looked to be and he hurt damn it!

Olivier didn't bother with the glass and in one breath he gulped down half a bottle of the first wine he could lay his hands on. He proceeded to finish it off as he riffled through the low hollow in the wall, blatantly ignoring the oil lamp in his reach. He couldn't bear that much light; he wasn't ready for so much clarity.

As he lit the candle with a shaky hand a low moan cut through the silence. He glanced at his wife before he sat in front of her on the floor, leaning back against the wall with another bottle of wine hanging from his fingers. He lazily awaited her return to consciousness.

"My head," the woman groaned and her arm jerked in an aborted move, "Ow my head…."

Olivier waited until his wife blinked open squinting eyes and regarded him with an odd sort of disinterest. She made to move her arms again and her chair screeched.

"What did I drink?" she snorted more to herself then anything.

She glanced about the darkness that surrounded them and then looked at her husband again. Bleary dark eyes seemed overly bright as they regarded the man slumped against the wall. Her eyes darted towards the small candle burning idly and she smiled at Olivier.

"That was considerate of you," she said.

Olivier took another mouthful of the wine and nodded at her. Language swirled in his mouth and words dodged his tongue but his thoughts weren't blunted and his sharp mind not dulled. He needed more wine; he wasn't ready for this yet.

Olivier took another gulp from the bottle in his hand and pressed his head back into the cool wall, his free hand pressed into the cold floor. He found that the chill seeping into his feverish skin, reaching into his core, was oddly comforting.

"I don't suppose you'll free me would you?" the Comtesse moaned softly, "My head is killing me here."

"Who are you?" Olivier asked.

"I have many names," his wife shrugged, "Although I prefer the term Milady,"

"Milady," Olivier tried the name.

"It's simple, respectful," the Comtesse shrugged again.

Olivier nodded and stared at the bottle in his grip. His thumb drew over the marker stuck on it, boasting its history, its precise origins in a neat curvy handwriting. Olivier stared at its audacity and in a flash smashed it down by his feet.

Splinters of glass flew like the wood from Thomas's door struck by a musket ball, a dark stain spread out on the ground as it had on a too still chest. ' _Why can't you see brother_?'

"I'm sorry," Olivier confessed to the darkness.

"Why don't you ask your questions my dear husband?" the Comtesse inquired.

He looked up at her sluggishly, this monster, his wife, his love. He had loved her and she had wielded it like a dagger to his back. Olivier snorted to himself, because the truth of it all was that he still loved her, he had seen her murder his brother and he still could not bring himself to slit her throat where she sat, all tied up and helpless.

He rolled his eyes and regarded the spilt wine; what a waste Olivier thought.

"You never lacked in words my love, why the silence now?" his wife asked.

"Why?" Olivier met her eyes.

"Why…?" she raised an inquisitive brow.

He hated that he almost smiled, it was instinct by now, responding to her vivacious nature. That was what had attracted him in the first place; the woman wasn't an airhead and didn't fear to show it.

Olivier knew that she didn't need the question clarified, she was toying with him. It hurt to imagine how much she had played with his life and love already, yet he clarified. For whose amusement, he could not tell.

"Why did you murder my father? Why did you murder my brother?"

There was no question of whether she had done it and Olivier knew that she wouldn't insult him with denying the claim. That was just not who his wife was.

"I made a mistake," she said, "You were not supposed to know,"

"But you had planned to kill my family?"

"Eventually," The Comtesse shrugged, "Your father wouldn't stop digging, any moment he was out of compulsion he would search what he should have left alone, and then your brother. What with that boy covering him, it was annoying really…."

Olivier had gone numb at her flippant confession of planning to murder his family; he hardly registered what she said after.

"…..I got hasty and ruined it all." she finished.

Her eyes widened as she realized the words that had escaped her. Olivier watched true fear cross his wife's face and nearly jumped when she abruptly pulled against her bindings. The chair clumped forward and screeched backwards as the woman pulled and wriggled.

She stopped just as abruptly as she had started. Heaving in a breath she closed her eyes. Olivier watched with a detached fascination as her face went blank; with a baited breath he regarded her stillness.

Then she was struggling against the ropes again, her vigor renewed to a manic level. She twisted and growled like a wild beast caught in a trap. Her outburst lasted long enough that Olivier feared she would rip the armrests straight off the chair.

"Damn that boy!" she gasped and shook her hair away from her face, "Damn him, damn him, I CAN NOT USE IT!"

* * *

Treville wiped a damp washcloth over his son's face and placed it onto his forehead. The heat was quick to leech the cold from it. He left his hand onto the drying cloth over the still warming brow and wondered if the boy had garnered an injury that he had missed.

He watched Felipa as she threw together items that she intended to pack into a traveling bag. Isaac had disappeared before their return, which was a shame because Treville could have used him on the new regiment. A good man was worth more than a dozen well trained soldiers in his opinion.

Treville hitched a seat on the table on which his son lay and watched the woman move to and fro between the doors.

"I need answers," his voice was low but firm.

"You need to ask the questions first," she snapped over her shoulder as she folded one of Rene's shirts for the fifth time.

It refused to stay in the creases and she ended up throwing it down with a huff. She pulled out a wooden chest from under the folds of loose cloth and began riffling through the items.

"Why did you not tell me about him?"

Felipa dropped to her knees in front of the open wooden chest and looked up at him with wide dark eyes. When he refused to take back his question she dropped her gaze, pulled out a thick shawl from the wooden chest and began folding it slowly.

"I wanted to, that night, but then I got angry. And you left," she looked up at him, "I wrote to you and waited. But the child was coming along..."

"So you left too,"

Felipa nodded and drew a hand over her reddening eyes.

"I didn't get your letters,"

"I knew there was a slim chance for that, what with all the rebellion going on," Felipa shrugged, "I went back to my people, but when Rene was born….. he was worse than they had feared and I could not….. I could not let them do it… not to my child….. not to my son."

Her voice cracked and she buried her face in the shawl. Treville unconsciously gripped his son's hand as he stared in shock at his wife. As the words slowly sank in, he left his perch from beside his son and went to crouch in front of the woman on the floor.

"I don't understand." He told her as he lifted her face from the shawl and braced it with his hands on either side, "What are you not telling me Felipa? What is wrong with our son?"

"He's evil," she whispered.

"WHAT?" Treville fell back on his rear as though he'd been hit in the face.

"Or he will be; it's his destiny."

Treville was surprised to watch the solemnity in Felipa's eyes. He backed away from her and pushed himself to his feet, because he could believe in Psychics, in magic and everything else but he refused to believe in any destiny that claimed his son to be evil.

Treville drew a hand through his short cropped hair and nearly ended up with pulling out a handful. He looked down at his wife and then at the boy who was still out of, was completely unawares and looking achingly vulnerable.

Treville turned to the woman again.

"He is not evil." he said.

"He was born a knot," she replied sadly.

"Felipa I love you," Treville raised his hand to stop her from countering, "I still love you, I've never loved another woman but you. But right now you're not making any sense."

"Remember when I told you that my abilities were like plucking notes into a rhythm?"

The soldier nodded and perched again by his son's side, gripping a limp a hand.

"That is what a Psychic is; each of us is a single chord. Most of us only have a sort of sixth sense, our instincts are better than normal humans. A large number of us go through our entire lives without recognizing our abilities" Felipa said as she twisted the shawl in her grasp, "But those who do, wish to increase them, so we choose the strongest chord and the others tie in. That person becomes a Knot. Like me."

"So you tie all the Psychics of your clan together," Treville nodded, "But he is doesn't?"

"Yes, they are tethered to me and through me they share their strength but Rene –," Felipa glanced at her son and paused to gather her thoughts, "He wields power by himself, we join into one rhyme but he was born with a tune of his own."

"And you're sure of this?"

"I could tell when he was born. Most knots will be able to sense him, especially now that he has announced himself." Felipa said.

"This is not a good thing then? To be this 'knot' by birth?"

"Every person born as a knot had turned to the dark side. They cannot help it, their power are deeply ingrained in their nature. They use it without a thought so much that when they know about it they misuse their abilities."

"But I haven't seen him use them," Treville shrugged, "Have you?"

"Have you seen him with the people of this area? He makes friends wherever he goes, people listen to him, heed his demands" Felipa shook her head; "and I don't think he even realizes it when he's tapping into his abilities."

"It's called being charming and it's not a crime," Treville said, "I should know since I'm a soldier."

Felipa looked at him and smiled, "That's what I tell myself," she said.

She gathered Rene's clothes from the wooden chest and dumped them onto the chair with other things to pack. As she pushed to her feet Treville moved to help her and ended up with her partway in his arms.

He hadn't realized how easy it would be to fall back into lost habits, hadn't thought how comfortable it would be. It was only natural when his hands slipped from her elbows to her waist and it was simply normal to feel her lean against him.

"But that is not all is it?" he asked at length, "there is more?"

She nodded against her shoulder; her voice barely rose above a whisper, "my family wanted to kill him," she sobbed, "They wanted him dead the day he was born."

Treville held her as her knees lost their strength, he held her until they were both huddled on the floor and she had cried her tears dry.

Her family had been openly hostile towards their marriage and now he was told they wanted to murder his child. Treville was having a hard time to not go out there and punch the only family member of his wife that was in the vicinity.

"If I remember correctly, you were an only child." He said.

"Remi is a watchman."

"Your family sent him?" he demanded sharply.

"I appointed him," she said, "I needed someone to keep Rene in check. I told my family that he would suffice should the need arise to – when Rene loses his sense of right and wrong so we have to –"

Treville understood what she could not say but he waited for another explanation; he needed to know what was so special about this man that his wife kept him around even when he beat their son. He let Felipa push herself away and put some distance between them.

"Remi is a watchman; he can sense a Psychic and is immune to all their powers," she elaborated, "He cannot be compelled."

"Compelled?"

"My kind can make people do things that they may not want; a powerful Psychic can compel a weaker one," her gaze drifted to Rene before coming back to Treville, "A watchman cannot be compelled."

"They couldn't do that to me either," Treville snorted.

It was true, if her family had had her way the two of them would have never been married. They would have compelled him to the other side of the world or made him eat his own bullet. Treville was so caught up in his musing that he was surprised to note Felipa staring at him.

"What?" he demanded.

She gave him a meaningful look and a defeated sort of a shrug. Treville's eyebrows shot up until they were almost lost in his hairline. Surely the woman was not implying what he thought she was. He stared at the answers offered honestly in her gaze and then shook his head slowly.

"I'm not." He said.

"I could not compel you to let me go,"

"I was young and in love,"

"You were curious and stubborn."

"I was merely intrigued."

"You left your regiment and followed me across the border."

Treville was about to retort but realized he had no explanation to offer. He began identifying Psychics after Felipa revealed to him their existence but he would be a liar if he denied picking up on something being off about some people he had met even before his paths crossed with his those of his future wife.

"But I can sense you, I mean I can feel your threats in my mind," he protested.

"At a very basic level yes and it is only because you are able to recognize our kind." Felipa sighed, "We cannot reach your core. Your mind and thoughts are protected."

"It's a bad thing isn't it?"

"Your kind has hunted down ours for centuries."

"So that's what you meant, your family already feared our child even before they knew he was this 'knot'?"

"Ours is a child of strife Jean," Felipa wiped at her misting eyes, "He will always live on the edge between two worlds; belonging to none."

With a sigh Treville got to his feet and moved to switch the washcloth from his son's forehead with a wet one. And if his gaze blurred at the sight of the quite face he ignored it and if his hand lingered on the boy's cheek neither of them pointed it out.

"I'll take him," he said, "I'll take him with me."

"And then what?" Felipa asked as she too stood up and shook the dust off her clothes, "You're going to be heading a new regiment how will you keep an eye on him? What will you tell him to keep him with you?"

"I'll tell him that I'm his father." He hadn't meant to growl, it came from the almost possessive surge that welled in him.

"And how will you explain your previous absence,"

"I'll tell him the truth," Treville gave her a meaningful look, "I'll tell him the entire truth."

"Don't you dare," she suddenly inserted herself between Treville and their son, "You will not tell him anything. It would push him into darkness sooner than later."

Treville was just about to tell her that he was not going to live in the fear of some fabricated destiny when the front door banged open. The parents instinctually moved to cover Rene from sight and clutched at their son when they realized it was Remi.

The man was wide eyed and out of breath.

"They're here." He gasped.

"Who?" Treville's grip tightened on his son's hand.

"The Red Guard." Remi said, "Five men and one captain."

* * *

"What has he done to me?" his wife demanded, "Did you put him up to it? Is he the one you're tethered to?"

Olivier smiled, it seemed that the wine had worked; he could no longer understand what the Comtesse was talking about. With his mind finally numbed, he rocked up to his feet and grabbed the wall when the world around him refused to stop spinning.

"You are the one who's bound up Milady not I,"

"Yet it is you who looks in need of a rescue," she rolled her eyes.

"You will pay for your crimes," he said, "I will make sure of it."

"You think you will send me to Paris and have me executed?" his wife grinned, "It's a long way from here my love, anything could happen on such a winding journey."

Olivier staggered closer to the woman. He leaned forward with his hands gripping the backrest of the chair she sat in, trapping the Comtesse in his gaze that roamed over her lovely face, her dark tresses and that seductive smile. Tempted and disgusted at once by her intoxicating presence, he leaned forward until his mouth was right by her ear.

"I will see you hanged under the tree where we first met." He said.

She stilled and turned to face him slowly; her dark eyes were blown open and her breathing stuttered. Olivier savored the shock on her face and yet he wanted to gather her close and comfort her. He was going insane, he was absolutely sure of it.

He pulled back when someone knocked on the cellar door. With the wine sloshing in his system and the candle dissolved into a puddle of wax it took him some time to find his way over to the door. His fumbling efforts to heave open the wretched thing rewarded him with blinding light and a muffled scream of the scullery maid.

"There are men here sire, they've come seeking an audience." She said.

"What men?" Olivier drew a hand over his face and grimaced.

"Armed my Lord and in uniform," she said, "They're saying the Cardinal sent them from Paris."

Red Guard, he frowned, he hadn't sent for them. Olivier's eyes widened as he thought of Treville. The soldier knew what the Comtesse had done. He would have sent for the Red Guard to take the woman to Paris, only a soldier's word could garner such a swift response Olivier assumed.

"Tell them I'm indisposed at the moment."

"They are very insistent my lord."

"Fine then, tell them to wait in the main hall," he nodded as he formed a plan, "And get me Remi the sword-smith from the village."

* * *

Isaac struck the shovel in the ground, drew a hand over his sweat slick brow and plopped down onto the hard cold earth. He regarded the three long streaks of upturned soil and wondered if this was a preview of his own end. Will he at the end of the day be lying in a shallow, unmarked grave on the outskirts of some forsaken village, known by a handful of people and mourned by even less?

He wasn't a philosophical man and had never pretended to be one; he'd subdue a person first and ask questions later, if the said person had managed to retain consciousness that is. But he wished to be someone who belonged, somewhere, anywhere.

Flea would tell him that he already belonged and Charon would scoff at him for missing something he never had had. Isaac glanced back at the two of them.

Charon was lying against the tree Flea was leaning against, at this distance he couldn't see their features but he was sure he could feel the young woman's eyes on him. She was worried for him, although he was far less wounded and much better taken care of than Charon. It warmed him, this concern from her.

With a grunt he pushed himself off the ground, a hand bracing his wounded side and breathing carefully measured.

"I think his ribs are cracked at least," Flea greeted him partway.

"Good," Isaac said as he studied their friend.

Charon had wrapped both his arms around his chest and was hunched forward slightly in an effort to take shallow breaths. He glanced up with his one good eye, the other having swollen shut in radiant shades of purplish red that covered most of the side of his face.

"At least we got the gold," he licked the corner of his puffed lip, "Each of us gets a bigger share now."

"I don't want it," Isaac said as he crouched before his friend and tilted his head to get a better look at the swollen eye. He sincerely hoped that his friend wouldn't end up blind in one eye. Their lives had enough problems as it was.

"It'll be a long ride to Paris," Flea said, "I'll go get some supplies from the village."

"I'll come with you," Isaac began to get to his feet but Flea stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll be spotted easily," she said before she broke into a smile, "And you'll slow me down."

Isaac moved to sit beside Charon as the young woman grabbed a worn satchel and began making her way down the dirt path in the forest. Maybe he was being ungrateful, maybe it was just the lingering effects of his injury, but as he stared out onto the winding trail Isaac wondered if he'd ever find a home in his life.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Your thoughts?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: First off, sorry for the delay. Things got out of hand a lot of times while I tried to pin down this chapter, but on the plus side its a long one. Thank you everyone who has faved and followed and a big THANK YOU to all of you who have reviewed this story, your words are cherished and have been re-read over and over and over again.**

 **So this story has developed a mind of its own and that means there will be a sequel. It'll be posted as soon, hopefully!**

* * *

There was iron in his veins, wrought iron melted from his uncle's various anvils moved sluggishly through his heart and out into his limbs, leaving his chest aching and his body heavy. Someone pried open his eye and he frowned up at the blob looming too close to his face.

The oddly defined splash moved back instantly and something braced his face. Warm, rough – hands – he realized tiredly. Hands that were on either side of his face and keeping him from banging his head too hard against the firm surface he was lying on.

"It's alright Rene, it's alright," a soothing voice broke through the cottony silence and then the world crashed onto him like an errant, powerful wave, smashing into him as he broke through the surface of some unknown sea.

"You're safe, it's over….." the grip on the side of his face disappeared.

"Just breathe, you're safe….." a hand on his forehead and another on his chest, grounding, soothing, and moving in a small circle.

"Just breathe….."

He pulled in a lungful and nearly choked on it. The cough tore through any lingering apathy and seared like a lance into his aching head. Someone pulled him upright; the momentum igniting sparks behind his eyes that were clenched shut. He coughed again and his dry throat tore itself up like an old sheet of parchment.

"That's it, you're all right…..

When he finally got his bearings it was to find his forehead pressed into a shoulder and reassuring grip to the back of the neck.

He stilled.

"Shh…,"

Rene backed up immediately. Thoroughly embarrassed, he drew back his head and stared with bleary eyes at the soldier sitting before him; the soldier who still gripped his shoulder and who brushed his hair back from his face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Thomas he is – the Comtesse –"

"I know," Treville said and pulled his head forward again.

Rene pushed himself out of the man's grasp and swung his legs over the side of the table he had been lying on. He was in his home, in the main room his mother used as her workshop. The peculiar smell of yards and yards of untouched cloth hung about in the hearth warmed air.

Rene shuddered. His cold bones shivered in his cramping flesh and left him bent over, with his arms rigid and his hands pressed onto the table's edge. An entirely human warmth settled over his shoulders, the smell of leather enveloped him, smell of leather and a hint of gunpowder.

Rene straightened abruptly.

It was the long brown coat –Treville's coat he noted – that was draped over him.

"Better?"

Rene nodded; he feared that if he tried to speak he would end up crying and losing whatever shred of dignity he still had left. He didn't look up as he was given a glass of water, grabbing it out of reflex more than anything.

His head ached and pulsed like an overripe melon about to burst open. He wished it would explode if it meant all that he had seen would spill out and leave the back of his eyelids a clean slate.

"You need to drink it," Treville pointed out.

He took a sip, pushed it down through the shards in his throat and carefully set the glass down at his side.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"You –"

"You hit your head." It was his mother who replied; "You hit it pretty hard. It was one of those closed wounds," she set down a stack of folded clothes on a chair, "Bruising on the inside."

"His fever's gone," Treville said.

"Good," she nodded, "Remi has gone to the château. Why don't you check on him? The Comte might need some help with the funeral."

"The Comtesse –" Rene began.

"Is a troubled woman, we know now," Felipa said, "I'd say she has lost her mind."

Rene never got a chance to voice his thoughts as his mother turned to the soldier who looked like he had tasted something incredibly sour.

"All the more reason for you to check on the Comte hmm?" Felipa pointed out, "The Red Guards are at the château as well and I just hope they don't feel _compelled_ to do something reckless."

Treville was on his feet in an instant. Rene felt an inexplicable loss at the sight of him gathering his weapons to leave. But he pushed the feeling out of the way for the more pressing matters at hand. He pulled closer the coat draped over his shoulders and regarded his mother.

"The Comtesse isn't human," he kept his voice low; "She said that she was a Tether?"

His mother rolled her eyes and kept sorting the clothes; from the corner of his eye Rene could see that Treville had gone a few shades paler. He knew that there was something big going on, like the smell of a coming storm hanging in the air, he could not deny it.

"The Red Guards?" Felipa reminded the soldier who startled a bit.

Rene frowned as the man gave a sharp nod and left without meeting his eyes. He waited as the sound of the front door closing ebbed away and he could open his eyes again. His gaze tracked his mother as she stuffed neatly folded clothes in a travelling bag.

"You're going somewhere?" he asked.

"We are going, together." She said, "I think it's time to resume your education."

His mother had always been diligent to get him to learn to read and write. Not just French but Spanish and Latin as well; but he had assumed that he was done with his studies now. It wasn't that he didn't like reading; he always enjoyed a good book when he borrowed one from Thomas's library.

His musings pulled to a sharp stop.

"He's dead," he wiped a hand over his face, not realizing he had spoken out aloud.

Rene pulled in a sharp breath and stared at his hands as the silence fell thick around him. It rang in his ears, throbbed in his head and ached in his chest. Thomas was dead, his friend was dead; he had seen it, he had felt in even. He glanced up at his mother who hastily resumed her packing. Rene looked back down at his hands, clenched them into fists and exhaled slowly.

"We're going to Douai, I know a priest in the convent there. He'll take you under his wing." His mother didn't look away from her task.

"I'm not going," he refused in a flat tone.

"Yes you are."

"I am not going," he pushed off the table and stood up, "I'm not leaving until I know what the hell happened out there. Not until I know what that woman was talking about."

He walked closer to his mother only to find the room spinning, it forced him to throw out a hand and brace himself against the chair his mother had placed the travelling bag on. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the backrest to keep from crashing to the floor.

"Why did she murder Thomas?" his mother stilled but did not look at him.

"How does she know you?"

The last question was barely more than a whisper and it left a lump in his throat. There was something she was hiding from him; he could tell by the way his mother refused to look him in the face.

He grasped her arm and made her turn to him, trying to ignore how she had stiffened at his touch.

"I'm the only seamstress in the area, ofcourse she knows me," Felipa said lightly not looking up at him.

"Don't lie to me." His voice hadn't raised an inch of an octave but there was power in it. He didn't see the pitch black that flashed in his eyes but he did see his mother step away from him. He didn't miss the flash of honest fear in her face.

He felt a strange thrum under his skin and blinking rapidly Rene stepped back. He grasped his head in his hand in a vain attempt to strangle the agony that had spiked in there.

He looked up at the woman with bleary eyes.

"Ma?"

She didn't look him in the face again nor did she come forward to help him as he stumbled back towards the table that was set in the middle of the room. Still clutching his head, Rene collapsed in one of the chairs and tried not feel the barbed sting of her mute rejection. It dawned on him slowly that his mother was afraid to look at him, to touch him, she was afraid of him.

"I killed a man," he confessed softly, "one of the robbers last night."

He glanced up at his mother who had resumed her packing. He didn't know whether to be happy or sad at the lack of reaction from her

With a muted sniffle he wiped at his eyes and drew a hand through his hair. He pulled at the strands in his fingers until his headache was cut through by the sharp pain. He relished the feeling; it gave him something to focus on other than the numb sense of abandonment churning in him.

That unknown yet strangely familiar pulse that had been pushing against the Comtesse's hold during their encounter finally curled and settled in his chest, leaving only a soft purr in his body.

"You should get all the rest that you can, we leave tonight." His mother said.

* * *

With her hands and ankles tied up she felt every bump and jolt as the cart pulled up the mound that would be a rippling blue come spring; when the forget-me-nots would bloom like a cool pond amidst the rolling green.

Reaching deep within her she pushed her mind again, tried to reach out to the mind of the driver at least but her abilities were burnt out like dry grass struck by a bolt of lightning; and like the aftereffects of a roar of thunder there was a rustling silence hanging in her mind. Her senses were cut off, limited like they had never been before. She couldn't even look as far as she was used to let alone reach her Knot.

She glanced up in time to catch the driver of the cart staring. He jerked back straight but she did not miss how his gaze had lingered on her neckline. The Comtesse smiled, she was a weapon in more ways than one.

Timing it perfectly when the cart hit the next rut, she threw herself out of the open carrier and onto the soggy knoll. The old horse reared as the driver pulled it to a sharp halt and nearly pitched over himself.

The fall wasn't even bruising but she groaned loudly and made a show of struggling to get up anyway. She wasn't at all surprised by the helpful hands that came.

Remi gathered her into a sitting position and gaped at the sight of thick tears rolling down her face.

"Don't cry Milady, it's not so bad," he said.

She nodded with a loud sniff and gulped down air like she had just been pulled out of a river. Remi's gaze drew to her heaving bosom and she pretty much rolled her eyes; it was too easy with men like these.

She gave a final shudder and grabbed the front of his shirt with her bound hands.

"Please, have mercy Monsieur," she said, "My husband has gone insane, please, have mercy."

"Now, now Madame," he grabbed onto her hands and did not let go, "I have to."

"But I'm innocent, it was his brother. That wretched creature! You must help me Monsieur." She shook him hard and pulled him closer in act of desperation.

"His brother?"

"Yes his brother, he tried to – he pushed me to –" she buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed hard.

As she had expected he held her; and when his hands strayed from her head to her shoulders and to her back, she bore it with clenched teeth hidden from view.

"He would not listen," she pulled back, "I had to, it was only to save my honour."

"Of course,"

"But no man can understand that," she didn't have to pretend the bitterness for those words at least, experience had taught her the most impenetrable lessons even if it was a ruthless teacher. It took some control for her to keep it from her face as she blinked up at the man, batting her thick tear stained lashes for good measure.

"Do _you_ understand Monsieur….?"

"Remi," the man provided hastily, "Remi the sword-smith."

"A gentle name," she smiled.

"Monsieur Remi your eyes tell me you're a kind man." She glanced down in a pretense of self-consciousness and tried not to think of the only kind man she had ever known.

One who did not fall for her grace and airs but fell in love with her in her moments of true frustration. Olivier had been a mark, she had never forgotten that but it was refreshing to see that he liked her for the times she was direct with him; when she was truly, furiously her and not playing to be anything else.

And that same man had now condemned her to her death because he had seen her true purpose. Her Knot had been right all along, love was only for the masks she wore.

"I don't want to harm you," Remi pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulders and a hand on her lower back, "But I can't help you. The Comte said he would see it done."

That he had, her dear husband was obstinate like that; nothing was right unless it was done under his watchful eyes. Yet a part of her was saddened at the thought of him witnessing her death delivered by his orders; she had always so thoroughly believed that he was a kind man.

With a sour taste of loss she grabbed the man who held her and kissed him hard; disgusted yet not surprised by his eager response. She pulled away with a grimace she played as reluctance and held on to the stunned man.

"Won't you even try for me?" she asked, "Wouldn't you try to save me so that we can escape this cruel place together?"

"Of course Milady, of course," he grinned and hastily went for another kiss.

They broke apart at the distant sound of a galloping horse.

The Comtesse gathered herself and moved up the knoll to stand under the tree where she had first met her love. Her eyes roamed over the expanse in the direction of the château and widened as the lone figure materialized over the horizon. A tiny part of her was disappointed, that tiny part had hoped that the Comte had actually loved her, that he would not have had the strength to witness her death.

She paid no heed to Remi as he bustled about to get ready for her hanging. She stared back at her husband with her chin high and her face blank save for the challenge in her eyes. Despite being tied up she stood straight and poised in her defiance. The silence from her Knot was unnerving as was the distance stretched between her and her husband.

Alone and bound she was but Milady wasn't helpless, because that meant that she had looked for help when life had squashed such notions out of her. Needing help was a weakness that she didn't entertain. She would fight tooth and nail, she'd play dirty and she'd cheat and she would survive.

As she stepped onto the wobbling cart and the noose fell across her neck she gazed at her love, her husband and silently dared him to assume that the game was over. Even if Remi failed, though she highly doubted it if the loose bindings around her wrists were a clue, but even if her life was forfeit she had done her job.

The board had only just set my love, she thought as her musings turned to her Knot. It had been a bit sloppy but she had carried out the orders given to her. The Comte was alone, betrayed and disillusioned; it would push out his abilities and he would turn to his Knot. She would have loved to see who he was tethered to, if he was tethered to that is; because if he wasn't, she knew just the Knot who would be glad to link him in.

The Comtesse glanced to her side when she felt Remi steadying the cart, his hand on its side was ready to maneuver it out from under her. She ignored the way her eyes pricked with unbidden moisture and the way her heart picked up its pace; instead she glared at her husband.

The horizon was darkening bit by bit as the clouds thickened above, but her gaze never wavered. Because like the flowers she so loved, in one form or another, Milady would not let that man forget her.

She didn't see Remi shove the cart but with a jerk the world was pulled from under her feet and the noose burned around her throat. Her last view was of her husband turning away just before the rope blazed in a pull around her neck.

* * *

When he finally reached the château all he saw was red, quite literally. Six heavily armed men clad in red cloaks and silver armour, with faces streaked crimson in rage were towering over the Comte's servants. Like giant foxes after terrified hens they had sent the poor souls in a flurry about the main garden.

"It's been ages!" the one Treville marked as the captain of the group was screaming at a rather terrified young man, "We didn't come down here all this way to be treated with such disrespect!"

"Respect is something you earn only by giving it." Treville said as he came to stand by the young man who looked on the verge of tears.

"Monsieur Treville fancy meeting you here," there was nothing pleasant about the grin tossed his way.

"Gaudet," he nodded, "why are you terrorizing the Comte's staff?"

"Because he has had us waiting for hours now and these incompetent fools wouldn't go in and get him!"

"I told you he's not here." The young man –Jacques, Treville noted – squeaked from beside him.

"And where is he?" he asked Jacques only to look up at the sound of a horse approaching.

The Comte rode straight into the garden, past the trio and up to the arched door of the château. He reined in his beast with the precision worthy of his title then proceeded to stumble out of the saddle with all the grace of the drunk that he was.

He didn't even glance in their direction and staggered through the main door into the hall. By the time Treville had followed him in, the young man was refilling his glass from a decanter. The soldier stopped at a distance and observed quietly as Gaudet walked by to the Comte, his bearing proud and his armour shining.

"We are here on the order of the Cardinal my lord," he announced.

It earned him a glance before the Comte threw back his head and drained his glass in one gulp. Treville winced, at this rate there would be more wine in the young man than blood. The captain of the Red Guard wasn't daunted though.

"The Cardinal wishes to offer you a place as his Lieutenant, you will be the Captain of the captains of the Red Guard answering only to the Cardinal himself." He said.

Olivier took another mouthful of the wine, this time directly from the decanter. His bloodshot eyes regarded the audience with the somberness that Treville thought should not have been possible with the amount of alcohol the man has consumed.

"Get out," his voice resounded like a crack in a glacier.

Treville shifted back a bit further, he was brave not stupid, and he knew what the Comte had gone through in the night. He did not wish to get caught in the avalanche that was building under that calm façade.

"We have been waiting for hours!" Gaudet snarled.

"I'm not interested in your offer," Olivier straightened, "Get out."

Gaudet's hand flew to his sword but he never got to draw it, with a speed belying the wine he had consumed Olivier grabbed the hilt instead, pulled out the sword and with a kick to the man's knee sent the captain of the Red Guard sprawling on his back.

The tip of the blade came to rest on Gaudet's throat and the commotion herald in the rest of his men. Treville watched with barely concealed smugness as Olivier took on a pair of Red Guards, beating them into a corner even in his inebriated state.

He was almost reluctant to end the unplanned duel, but Olivier was risking more than his life here and it looked to the soldier that he didn't even care about it.

"Enough!" he roared with all the authority his reputation afforded.

It pulled the entire action to an abrupt halt.

Treville marched over to Gaudet, hauled him up to his feet and glared down any protest the man could offer. The rest of his men took cue from their captain and lowered their weapons. Treville broke into the impromptu semi-circle the men had formed around the Comte and shoved Olivier back until the young man collapsed into the chair by the table bearing his decanter.

"You have your answer," he placed himself in front of the Comte and faced Gaudet, "You are dismissed."

For a second he thought Gaudet would protest, the captain of the Red Guard fixed his enraged gaze onto the slumped form behind the soldier but Treville shifted on his feet and pointedly blocked his view further. He stood there in a quite challenge until all the Red Guards had left the château.

"Do you care so little for your life?" he rounded on young man, "Do you not care for your father's name? You wish to see it tossed around in gossip when his son is sent to prison?"

"Maybe I belong there," the red rimmed eyes met his own.

Treville pulled the man out of the chair by the front of his shirt and gave him a violent shake. His mind raced with so many scenarios all of which that he prayed weren't true. Yet the blank face before him told him otherwise.

"Where's the Comtesse?" he demanded, "What did you do?"

"I brought her to justice," Olivier said.

He regarded the soldier with eyes far more dead by virtue of being alive, the death of a body was hard to behold but the death of a spirit was gut wrenching. Treville found his own gaze blurring at the sight and unable to reprimand the young man already in such pain he let him drop back into his seat.

Olivier leaned forward with his head in his hands and Treville found himself reaching for the bent shoulder again. And again his attempt to support was shrugged off.

At length the young Comte looked up again.

"You are going to arrest me now?"

Treville sighed; a few days ago he just might have jumped right in with the affirmative. But now his thoughts were tempered with fatherhood and he was after all privy to the secret abilities of the Comtesse as well. It was an embarrassing thought but a part of Treville, probably the watchman part he mused, was glad that that woman was dealt with.

"Her body?"

"It's taken care of." Oliver shrugged.

"Then there's the matter of your brother's funeral."

"Jacques is seeing to it,"

"And what of you?"

"Don't care," Olivier again reached for the nearly empty decanter but this time Treville got to it first.

Anger broke through over the empty features and Olivier made to stand, swaying and paling dangerously. It was a pitiful sight and ended up with Treville shoving the young Comte back down with much less force than he had originally intended to.

"You've had enough," he said, "rest and clean up."

"Give it back." The protest sounded more like a whine.

"This would kill you." Treville waved the glass bottle in front of the Comte, "You've had too much already. Any more will kill you."

"Like I said, don't care," the words were said with such clear headed sincerity that Treville backed up on reflex.

Tightening his hold on the young man's poison of choice he regarded the Comte with veiled horror. The defeat in his posture and the empty gaze leveled his way screamed warning of a man not far from the edge.

"You have until the funeral," he used his officer voice this time, "We're leaving after that."

He pulled the Comte to his feet and shoved him none too gently towards the stairs. Olivier gathered himself at the commanding voice and moved to oblige without protest. It wasn't until he had reached the staircase that he turned back with a frown.

"Leaving?"

"You are commissioned to my regiment," Treville said, "We'll be based in Paris."

"And if I decline your offer?"

"Do you want to live here?" Treville countered.

The young Comte shook his head immediately and for once Treville saw fear and pain warring on that too vacant face. He was almost glad when the Comte turned back to the stairs and began his slow ascend.

Treville waited until Olivier had disappeared into the corridor above and then went in search of Jacques. He was glad to see that the man had all the arrangements in hand and instructed him to keep a check on the Comte.

It was on his way back to Felipa's place that he caught sight of a certain fair haired young woman. Flea was making her way towards the village gates with a full satchel and three horses in tow. Since no one was raising an alarm he assumed that they weren't stolen.

Treville cast a quick glance at the two Red Guards who leered at her and was sure the only reason that the girl ignored them was because she didn't want to draw attention to herself, he had a feeling she would have gutted them where they stood if the deftly concealed dagger and the flash in her eyes were anything to go by.

He followed her at a casual distance through the thin crowd and quite stalls; the village was in mourning, it hung like the dampness in the air that promised rain. Treville hadn't expected the whiffs of clouds from last night to gather so quick and thick come morning.

He tracked Flea with his eyes as she approached the village gates; he was running out of ideas on how to shadow her in the open expanse between the village and the forest. The decision was made for him in a matter of seconds when the girl paused at the gates and turned to catch him right in the eye. Startled and caught in his spying he offered a rather sheepish smile as he walked over to her.

"I hope you do a better job in enemy territory," Flea arched a brow.

"I should hope so too," he was not above accepting the responsibility of a shoddy job.

"Is there a reason you're following me Monsieur Treville?"

"I wanted to see Isaac," he told her, "To see if he was alright and discuss a few matters with him."

"He was always a fast healer," Flea shrugged and tilted her head pointedly towards the two Red Guards busy munching on apples, "I'm not leading the lot of you to him. You're not arresting them today."

Treville nodded, she had said 'them' it would mean at least one other from their group had survived. But then he wasn't interested in whoever it was.

"I'm not with them," he shook his head, "Whoever you're protecting, I'm not interested in finding them. I only need a few minutes with Isaac."

Flea regarded him for long minutes and then spun on her heels with a barely perceptible nod. Treville fell in stride with her. They were halfway out into the rolling expanse when the clouds rumbled above and curled with intent towards the village.

Flea glanced up at the overcast sky and handed one set of reins to Treville. The soldier followed her lead as they mounted the animals and made for the forest at a brisk pace.

* * *

Remi couldn't believe his luck; he couldn't look away from the dark haired beauty sprawled across his lap. He had cut off the noose as soon as the Comte had turned away and then smuggled the Comtesse across the route the young lord had pointed out. It was supposed to lead him unobtrusively to the cemetery and that it had. He waited then in the old undertaker's cabin since he knew that the oblivious owner wouldn't be there owing to the coming funeral.

The dark eyes blinked open slowly but Remi wasn't celebrating just yet, the Comtesse had breached consciousness several times over the hours and he had been elated at the thought of the reunion only to see her slip back into oblivion. He shifted where he sat on the floor and glanced at the door, by his calculation the old man Henri could be back any moment now.

"What….?" The woman rasped.

He looked down into the rapidly focusing dark eyes only to have his head snap back viciously by the force with which the Comtesse sat up abruptly and pushed herself out of his hold.

"Hey, hey it's alright," he reached forward, "It's me, I saved you."

She scooted back until she hit a wall and then clutched at her throat, breathing heavily. The angry red line must have stung at contact because she drew her hand away with a sharp wince.

"I cut you off as soon as I could," he told her.

"He looked away," her voice cracked but Remi didn't miss the hint of awe in there.

"That he did, as soon as I pushed the cart," he nodded and moved closer to the Comtesse, "I saved you, now we can escape from here together."

Milady nodded instantly but stopped with a wince and a groan. Her hand clutched at her head and Remi hurried to get her some water. She took it with shaky hands and a smile. He watched her take measured sips and wince every time she swallowed.

The Comte was insane Remi decided, insane to treat such a beautiful woman this way.

"I have a plan," he told her eagerly, "I have some responsibilities here that I need to take care of, but I'll be done with them soon. You just wait for me here alright? I'll be back in an hour at most."

She again gave him an indulgent loving smile and pulled him in for a kiss. He was reluctant to pull away but he could wait, there was a promise for a lot more to come. He couldn't believe he had finally found a woman to start a family with. She was beautiful, well bred and there was a rustling silence about her that set her apart from both the normal people and the Psychics.

Leaving her there in that cabin was the most difficult thing that Remi had ever had to do and he had done a lot of violent things in the service of the Brotherhood of Watchmen, even more in the side-jobs he picked up in that side of his world.

He would finish his latest assignment; do what he was hired to do by that delusional Psychic. He had thought it all out as the Comtesse had drifted in and out of consciousness.

Remi had taken the job after the Brotherhood of Watchmen had ordered him to lay low after a misunderstanding in his last assignment had produced undesirable results. He had had a feeling that he had lost some trust when he had been dismissed with those orders and it was sheer luck that he had stumbled into Felipa's way.

She had hired him; a Psychic of all the people had hired him. He was to keep an eye on her brat. Her terms had been clear, keep the brat in line and if it looked like he had leapt far over it he was to kill the boy.

Remi planned to do just that as he left the undertaker's cabin and made his way home.

* * *

"Look what I found roaming in the markets," Flea beamed as she dismounted in front of Isaac.

The dark skinned man grinned as he regarded first the horses he had assumed to be lost and then the soldier dismounting one of them. He turned to the girl who shrugged and tossed him an apple.

"Patrolling the streets now Monsieur Treville?" he asked.

"It looks like the village could use such diligence," he shrugged with an easy smile.

The soldier watched the young woman move towards what he had assumed was a pile of rags. It turned out to be the third robber, the one who had ridden off with the Comtesse. Treville didn't bother to ask who had left the man in such a state, as far as he was concerned the man deserved the beating he had endured.

"Why are you here?" Isaac blocked his view of the prone man.

"I'm here with an offer,"

"We don't need your pity," Isaac dismissed him, "Go back Monsieur Treville."

"I wish to recruit you," he had no strength left to beat about the point and he had a feeling that Isaac was the type of man who would actually appreciate his directness.

He watched the young man study him and he didn't miss how Flea had stilled in her ministrations of their wounded companion. Isaac drew a hand over his scruffy beard and rubbed the back of his neck while something akin to a grimace crossed his face.

"We're not really up to taking a new job," he nodded towards the two people behind him, "you see what I'm talking about?"

"Not an assignment, it's a long term deal." Treville shook his head, "Can we talk somewhere private?"

Isaac's brows shot up probably at the incredulity of it all Treville assumed, but the weary young man nodded. He motioned for him to follow until they were out of earshot of the other two. Isaac leaned against a tree and crossed his arms in front of him as he regarded the soldier from head to toe.

"You got your privacy," he pointed out.

"There's to be a new regiment, a King's Guard of sorts and I'm supposed to head this regiment," Treville said, "It's only in paperwork up till now but I'm looking for recruits. I think you'll be good fit."

Isaac looked at him expectantly, patiently waiting for something. When his silence brought forth no further words the young man broke out into a booming laugh.

"So ya think, you think I should –" he doubled over in his mirth with an arm wrapped around his wound, "This is good; ya think I can be a what? A soldier? I'll be roaming the streets catching criminals! Me?"

Treville regarded the man coolly, he didn't think it was a laughing matter and refused to smile even for politeness sake. They were talking about a young man's future, a man who deserved a chance to prove his mettle, Treville found absolutely nothing amusing about it.

Isaac slowly tapered off in chuckles badly disguised as coughs. He looked at the quite soldier with amusement on his face but an odd sadness in his eyes.

"You're really offering me a place in this regiment?"

"I am."

"I don't have connections, positions or even my father's name for that matter."

"Your own name would suffice."

"I don't know a proper thing about swords and such," Isaac shook his head, "And I ain't exactly a law abiding citizen."

"You can be trained," Treville dismissed the concern, "And you won't break the law if you can survive otherwise."

"You think ya know me?"

"I think I do," Treville shrugged.

Isaac sighed and pressed back into the tree. His gaze roamed over the distance they had put between them and his two companions. Treville could read the war on his face but he was not going to push the young man. For one it would only work in pushing Isaac back to his old life and for another it would not be his decision. Treville knew he was asking the man to take a life altering step; he wanted it to be the man's own choice.

"If you're doing this out of some misplaced guilt or gratitude –"

"You deserve a chance." Treville cut him off.

The surprise on Isaac's face was marred by the abrupt wetness in his eyes but Treville refused to drop his gaze. The man had to see, he had to know that he has a chance to better life. The soldier hoped that he had gotten the message across when Isaac finally looked away.

"Why me Monsieur Treville?" he asked.

"Because you're a good man," the answer was simple.

Isaac looked like he would argue but Treville had neither the time nor the strength for it. He had made his case; he honestly wanted this young man in his regiment and he had clearly told him so with reasons. He glanced up at the silver gray sky and turned to leave.

"I will be leaving for Paris in the morning." He said over his shoulder, "My route will be through this forest."

* * *

It had all started with a dare; he had just impressed Marjorie with his tree climbing expertise when Eugene from across the baker's had challenged him to scale the château walls and touch the chimney. With his youthful pride on the line Rene had complied, earning a twisted ankle, torn nails, and multiple scratches on the way; only to reach the top and to find that he was not alone.

The young lord with bloodshot eyes was peacefully cursing the existence of his brother's new love when the maniac from the village had huffed over the ledge. Thomas had nearly slipped off the roof in his fright screaming bloody murder about an attack on his home. The entire incident had left the old Comte in a very un-lord-like fit of hilarity.

That was almost three years ago, three years since he had dragged the reluctant lonely boy out into the village.

Rene managed a tiny smile as he tucked in his shirt, pulled on Treville's long coat and drew a hand through his hair. He would try his best to fill every waking hour with the good times they had shared; sleep, if it came, would lead him back to that clearing and that moment whether he wanted to or not.

Standing in the doorway he glanced up at the grumbling clouds that frowned at the trickle of visitors already beginning to flow towards the château.

A sharp tug at his back pulled him into the house.

"You're not going there," Felipa closed the door behind him.

"Why?"

His mother had always said it was his favorite word growing up, a short demand for readily available answers, most of the times at least. But now it was a loaded question, heavy with ambiguity because of all the unspoken questions floating around them.

"It's not safe."

"I don't care," Rene moved past his mother, pulled open the door and came face to face with his Uncle Remi.

The man smiled and stepped closer until the boy could feel the reek of his breath on his face. Rene didn't move an inch and glared head on at the violence in the man's eyes that he knew followed his Uncle's false casualness.

"And where are you off to in a hurry?" Remi asked.

"I'm going to the funeral," He spoke evenly and made to push past the man.

The only warning he got was a glint on the blade that flashed between them and left a trail of fire on his forehead. With a shocked gasp Rene staggered back, his hand pressed onto the wound arching over his left eyebrow.

"What the hell?!"

He couldn't decide if he was more shocked by the attack or his mother cursing. Blinking to find his equilibrium, he pressed harder onto the wound and tried to shake of the blood that had started blocking his view.

"How dare you?" his mother rounded on the man still wielding the blade.

Rene shoved her aside just in time to avoid the dagger bearing down at her and landed a hard punch across his uncle's face sending them both crashing on the floor in a jumble of limbs. The world rolled around him until they crashed in the wall beside the blazing hearth.

He caught his uncle's wrist with the dagger a hair's breath away from his throat. The man's eyes were narrowed in concentration, spit bubbled through his clenched teeth and Rene was sure that his uncle had finally lost his hold on his mental faculties.

Rene squirmed under him and received a sharp blow to his jaw from his uncle's free hand. His world narrowed down to the tip of the dagger intent to pierce his neck when a loud crash broke through the noise of their struggle and his uncle rolled off him with a grunt.

Wiping the blood from his eye, Rene hurried to his feet, tripped half way down over the pieces of splintered wood suddenly lying about him and caught himself against the wall in order to get his feet under him.

"Rene? Rene? Look at me boy," a slim hand lightly slapped him and he nodded at his mother who had somehow come to stand beside him.

He glanced down at the splintered chair leg in her hand and felt an insane desire to laugh. But then he saw his uncle getting to his feet. The man grinned at them, he still held the dagger.

"Come now, isn't that what you hired me to do Felipa?" Remi asked.

His mother shoved the chair leg in the hearth and set it ablaze. She waved the flaming end at the man.

"Not another word Remi,"

"Why? Afraid that the brat won' be able to take it?" Remi's eyes darted from the mother to the son, "Yes Rene, your mother here hired me to control you. I have given her my word that I will end your pathetic life if it's needed."

"Liar," Rene snarled at him.

He couldn't believe that the man thought he would fall for that.

"She's the one who's been lying." Remi advanced onto them, stopping only when the heat of the flames licked his face, "Tell him Felipa, tell him the truth."

Rene word never have believed such claim from another soul in the world but the one glance that his mother cast his way sealed the words in his heart.

Something broke in him.

He looked up and saw his uncle lunge at him with the dagger in his hand. He blinked and found a body in his arms. A gasping dying body, a woman, his mother, Rene exhaled with a shudder not knowing when he had stopped breathing. He clutched her in a daze and fell back against the wall.

There was blood on her lips, it was all that mattered to Rene and he eased her up as she wheezed, he was distantly aware of the flames that had roared to life where his uncle had tossed aside the burning wood his mother had held.

It was her terrified gaze flickering up that warned him of the attack, that feeling under his skin returned with a vengeance and he looked up at the man to catch his surprised face as ripple broke out in the air that sent his uncle flying.

"Just hold on alright?" He looked down at his mother, "We'll be out of here and you'll be fine."

Cradling her close, Rene swayed to his feet as the heat crackled over his skin and the smoke consumed his already blurring view .The flames had spread from wood to cloth and were suddenly curling all around him.

* * *

He had seen the dark smoke coiling up to meet the gray sky but Treville could not have dreamed the image that met him when he returned to the village.

He was late again.

Flames devoured the small house, licked at the air out of its shattered windows and gnawed on its bones with an eagerness that left the structure a groaning, shuddering mess. A particularly loud moan snapped Treville out of his shocked reverie and gave him a brutal shove forwards.

People shrieked and gaped as he shoved past them, a few Red Guards armed with pots and pails were throwing water in the face of the raging inferno that grinned and went on blazing high. He gaze hurried over the crowd but it didn't find the two faces he was searching for.

The house before him shuddered again and Treville rushed towards the main door only to have someone haul him back. He screamed at them, they didn't understand Felipa and Rene were in there. They could be trapped, they could be hurt!

He punched the face yelling at him to calm down and dashed out of the man's grip.

Heat slapped him in the face from several feet away and Treville wondered in horror what his wife and child would be going through. More arms grabbed him even as he fought but then somehow, like an answer to his desperation, the front door burst open and a staggering figure emerged from the heat and smoke.

It was his son who was half carrying and half dragging Felipa with him.

Relief turned his knees to water as Treville slumped to the ground and people rushed forward to help the survivors. Wiping his face and wondering when he had started crying, the soldier got to his feet and made his way to his son and his wife.

"I thought I lost you again," he sank down before his son and when the boy looked up at him, Treville was very glad that he was sitting.

One side of his boy's face was covered in blood from the gash on his forehead that still bled sluggishly. His jaw was bruised and his eyes puffed red. The lad gave a choked whine and bent over the woman in his lap.

"He killed her," Rene whispered, "he killed her,"

"Who? Rene let me see her," he tried to find a pulse in limp wrist he had gotten a hold of, "What happened here Rene? Who did this?"

His wife's skin was cooling rapidly despite the heat it had come from and no matter how hard he pressed there was no reassuring beat of a heart under his fingers. He clutched her limp hand and forced the boy to look up at him.

Dark brown eyes softened with tears met bright blue; Treville saw them flicker over his shoulder and eth boy leaned forward. He welcomed him with open arms realizing too late that the nimble fingers had reached for his pistol. There was calm flint like gleam in those eyes when Rene pulled out the pistol and fired it over Treville's shoulder.

He didn't have to turn to know that it had found its mark, he didn't have to turn to see a body fall to the ground but he did hear the shouting that followed and the unmistakable sound of clanking metal as the Red Guards approached them.

His son looked him in the eye again; there was no apology there just a sense of resignation as the boy hurried out from under the weight of his dead mother and away from the reach of the father he didn't even know was alive.

In that moment Treville knew that he may have lost his wife to death but he had also lost his son to life, he was a soldier the boy knew that, there had been goodbye in the lad's eyes. He would not trust a soldier after committing a murder in front of the entire village.

Numbed he was to such an extent that he simply sat staring as Rene dashed off with the Red Guards at his heels and the sky above opened up. Fat drops of rain pelted down and the wind howled as it picked up speed with every passing second.

Treville's ears rang with something more than the sound of a pistol going off near his head and it took him quite a number of tries to get to his feet on the slick muddy ground. The storm within him and without nearly bowled him over as he made his way to the village gates.

Rain came down around him like an ever moving curtain until he couldn't see his hand before his face. And if there were tears mingled in the water on his face, no one was the wiser.

* * *

The storm raged on late into the next morning. When it afforded a lull nearing the afternoon, three funerals were hurriedly gotten over with by the rather shaken villagers. They were scared because the Red Guards had returned early in the morning without the boy who had murdered his uncle.

Someone had heard that it was the boy who had started the fire, another confirmed that he did indeed but it was only to cover up the fact that he had murdered his poor mother. A neighbor lamented what a trial that wild child had been for his caretakers and a group of them assured everyone that the boy was not right in the head, a bit touched in the mind they said, something that he had gotten from his long dead father they agreed.

Treville was out of there the second the service was over. He rode out with Olivier even as the rain started again. His companion was silent and was supporting a blatant hangover, the soldier was almost glad of the young Comte's pride that forced him to plough through his duty without complaint. He had a feeling that Olivier was eager to leave the village as well.

It was on the edge of the forest that they met Isaac; sitting atop his rather antsy horse the young man greeted the two of them with a smile that was more of a grimace.

Treville eyed the split lip that the ex-thief supported, he was sure that Isaac' injured companion wouldn't have been capable of injuring him and that left Flea. The soldier raised a questioning brow but didn't push the matter when the young man shrugged.

He instead motioned towards his companion with his head.

"This is –"

"Athos," the young Comte spoke up.

Treville nodded more to himself than for the other two.

"Yes Athos and allow me introduce you to –"

"Porthos," the dark skinned man cut him off.

Treville watched the two of them acknowledge each other with a barely perceptible nod and moved on either side of him. He hadn't the heart to push them and turned to regard the small village in the distance, they were all weary of this place.

As the turned their backs on it as one, Porthos turned to with a resigned sigh.

"So is there a name for your regiment Monsieur Treville?"

A fond memory flashed before his eyes suddenly and he looked straight in the big man's eyes.

"The Musketeers," he said.

Porthos's nose twitched at the memory and Treville knew he understood.

* * *

It was late in the night when the storm broke. Guided by the pale moonlight, Rene pulled the collar of his long coat closer to his neck against the chill and approached the cemetery with his head bowed low under the wide, curved brim of a cavalier hat that he had nicked from the deserted village market. He was already a murderer, what was a little thievery in the face of that?

That's how he had reasoned away his grief at how low he had fallen.

Keeping in the shadows he paid his respect to the two he had come for and prayed for their souls. When he turned it was in time to see a dark haired blur skidding past him. He caught the child before he could hit the muddy ground.

"Whoa there," he pulled the gangly limbed creature and held on until the flying limbs found purchase.

"Sorry," the child sniffed loudly, "I mean thank you,"

"Sure," Rene shrugged.

It looked like the child belonged to the handful of people standing at the far end of the cemetery, travelers who were passing through. He looked down when the child sniffed again.

"My mother died," the child supplied helpfully, "We were going home and she got sick and she died."

Long thin arms wrapped around his waist as the child suddenly pressed close. He buried his face in Rene's coat and the older lad found himself awkwardly petting the child as he tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat.

The mop of straight dark hair shifted back and a lean young face looked up at him in the darkness.

"Don't tell anyone alright? I'm supposed to brave." He said.

Rene nodded without thinking, the boy using him as a handkerchief seemed to be ten years old, eleven at best. Seemingly satisfied with the answer the child drew back.

"You live here?" he asked.

Rene shook his head. He looked up at the travelers who had begun leaving; one of them slipped on the muddy terrain and ended up on his rear. The younger of the boys chortled and abruptly slapped a hand over his mouth.

"My aunt says it should be hard for me to smile at a time like this," he said.

"I think you should smile when it's the hardest to do so," Rene winked at the boy.

Wide dark eyes stared up at him from a rain soaked face but the boy turned abruptly when a man called out to him.

Rene took it as his cue to dissolve back into the darkness, but he looked on as the man approached the child and gathered him in his arms.

"Charles d'Artagnan how many times have I told you not to run off?"

"But I can't get lost I'm not a baby father, I'm eleven now not a..."

He watched the two of them leave the cemetery and then quietly made his way out of the village. He no longer had a home, or a family, or a prospect. As far as he was concerned Rene was dead and buried in the cemetery beside his mother.

* * *

 _ **We left our date of birth**_

 _ **And history behind - Mars by Sleeping at last**_

* * *

 **Reviews?**


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